B  ^  7Da  SED 


REGIiVFE 
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■^''":FIELDMMBLE 


HOW  TO 

APPRECIATE  THE  DRAMA 


The  medallion  embossed  upon  the  cover  and  impressed 
upon  the  title  page  is  the  device  of  the  drama  society, 
whose  courtesy  in  loaning  it  to  the  publishers  is  gratefully 
acknowledged. 


FRONTISPIECE 


]E.  in.  f^«>'ir3aiKii€>r  •Ji'n^a.'s.  2»a.'\i-2  3.,4»^VK 


Photograph  by  courtesy  of  Underwood  &  Underwood,  New  V'ork 


HOW  TO  APPRECIATE 
THE  DRAMA 


An  Klementary  Treatise  on 
Dramatic  Art 


By 

Thomas  Littlefield  Marble,  A.B.,  LL.B. 


HINDS,  NOBLE  &  ELDREDGE 

31-33-35  West  15x11  Street         New  York  City 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
HINDS.  NOBLE  &  ELDREDGE 


TO 

MY  IMOTHER 


331047 


TABLE  OF 
CONTENTS 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

INTRODUCTION 

PACE 

The  Botanist  ^ — ^  Analysis  of  the  Dramatic  Flower  —  The  Aim  of 

this  Treatise 21 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    DEVELOPMENT    OF    DRAMATIC    FORMS 

Origin  of  the  play  Impulse  —  The  Evolution  of  the  Greek  Drama 
—  The  Source  of  the  English  Drama  —  Early  IMethods  of 
Dramatic  Presentation  —  Origin  of  the  Pageant  —  The  Build- 
ing of  Theatres 


CHAPTER  III 

STRUCTURAL    PRINCIPLES 

The  Unities  —  The  Influence  of  the  Playhouse  on  Dramatic  Struc- 
ture—The Plot:  Its  Source  and  Form  —  Methods  of  Plot 
Development 37 

CHAPTER  IV 

NATURALNESS    AND    HEIGHTENED    EFFECTS 

Prose  as  the  Natural  Vehicle  of  Expression  —  The  Substitution 
of  Action  for  Soliloquy  —  Methods  of  Introducing  Light, 
Music,  Tumult,  and  other  Flmotional  Stimuli  —  Human- 
izing Methods  —  Incredulous  Events  Rendered  A'atural  by 
Anticipatory  Allusion  —  The  Introduction  of  Objects     ...     47 


12  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  V 

ECONOMY   AND   RETENTION   OF   INTEREST 

PAGE 

Economy  Applied  to  Characters,  Objects,  and  Events  —  Contrast 
and  Conflict  as  Dramatic  Principles  —  Popular  Appeal  in  the 
Choice  and  Treatment  of  the  Theme  —  The  Importance  of 
Action  —  The  Duty  of  Playgoers  to  Dramatist  and  Actors   .  65 

CHAPTER  VI 

AN   ANALYTICAL  DIAGRAM 

Unities  —  Plot  —  Detailed  Treatment .      .     83 

CHAPTER  VII 

ANALYSIS   OF    "AS   YOU   LIKE   IT" 

According  to  the  Analytical  Diagram 89 

CHAPTER  VIII 

ANALYSIS    OF    "  OTHELLO " 

According  to  the  Analytical  Diagram ...     99 

CHAPTER  IX 

ANALYSIS   OF   "a   DOLL'S  HOUSE " 

According  to  the  Analytical  Diagram 109 

CHAPTER  X 

analysis  of  "mary  Magdalene" 
According  to  the  Analytical  Diagram 115 

CHAPTER  XI 

"mistress  molly" 
A  Play  vnth  Marginal  Annotations 123 

CHAPTER  XII 

a  program  of  study     .     .  ...  147 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  13 
APPENDIX 

ANNOTATED   PLAYS 

The  Screen  Scene  from  "The  School  for  Scandal"     ....  155 

The  Trial  Scene  from  "The  Merchant  of  Venice"         ...  185 

"The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth"        215 


PLAYWRIGHTS 
ACTORS 


PLAYWRIGHTS  AND  ACTORS 

PAGE 

E.  H.  Sothern  and  Julia  Marlowe    .      .        Frontispiece 

William  Shakespeare 23 

Moliere  (Jean  Baptiste  Poquelin) t^T) 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan 43 

David  Garrick 53 

Oliver  Goldsmith         67 

Edmund  Kean 73 

Henrik  Ibsen 79 

Edwin  Booth 85 

Maurice  Maeterlinck 91 

Edwin  Forrest 105 

Herman  Sudermann 117 

Sarah  Bernhardt 127 

Victorien  Sardou 139 

Sir  Henry  Irving 157 

Ellen  Terry 159 

Sir  Arthur  Pinero 171 

Bronson  Howard         181 

Augustus  Thomas 191 

Joseph  Jefferson 201 

George  Bernard  Shaw 211 

Richard  Mansfield 223 

David  Belasco 235 

David  Warfield .      .  247 

17 


i8  PL.  nil  KICII TS  .  I  XI)  .  I  ( 'TORS 

Clyde  I''iUh 259 

James  AT.  Harric 271 

Walter  Browne 281 


In  securing  many  of  ihc  i)h()tograi)lis  of  the  plaj-wrigliLs  and  actors 
contained  in  this  collection  the  services  of  Air.  Charles  Ritzmann  have 
been  invaluable.  Both  the  publishers  and  the  author  take  this  opjKir- 
tunity  to  express  to  Mr.  Ritzmann  tlieir  ai)pri'iialion  ol  his  ])ainslaking 
and  courteous  attention. 

Cordial  acknowledgment  is  also  dui'  liie  firm  of  Underwood  & 
Underwood  for  their  esteemed  assistance. 


INTRODUCTION 


HOW  TO    APPRECIATE 
THE   DRAMA 


CHAPTER  I 

INTRODUCTION 

The  Botanist. —  It  is  doubtless  true,  if  we  are  to  be- 
lieve what  psychologists  tell  us,  that  we  see  little  in  this 
world  which  we  are  not  first  taught  to  see.  To  the 
student  trained  in  the  science  of  Botany,  "a  primrose 
by  a  river's  brim"  is  much  more  than  a  "yellow  prim- 
rose," for  he  has  been  taught  to  see  calyx,  petal,  stamen, 
and  all  the  complex  botanical  elements  of  which  the  little 
flower  is  composed.  More  than  this,  his  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  structure  does  not  rob  the  botanist  of  artistic 
appreciation.  Who  of  us  has  not  envied  him  the  pleas- 
ure and  enthusiasm  he  is  wont  to  display  at  the  sight  of 
an  object,  which,  to  our  own  untrained  eyes,  is  merely 
"a  yellow  primrose"  and  "nothing  more"? 

Analysis  of  the  Dramatic  Flower. —  So  it  is  with 
that  exquisite  flower  of  literary  expression  which  we  are 
pleased  to  term  the  drama.  Many  a  student  of  scientific 
tendencies  shows  a  marked  antipathy  to  the  study  of 


22  INTRODUCTION 

dramatic  literature  merely  because  he  has  iie\'er  been 
taught  the  use  of  scalpel  and  microscope.  His  analytical 
powers,  which  are  given  full  play  in  the  realm  of  the 
sciences,  so-called,  being  all  too  frequently  tabooed  in 
the  study  of  the  drama,  he  not  unnaturally  reaches  the 
conclusion  that  he  is  not  "literary,"  and  is  therefore 
content  to  let  those  whose  minds  he  conceives  to  be 
illogical  and  unscientific  carry  off  the  honors  of  a  study 
so  impracticable. 

The  Aim  of  This  Treatise.  The  botanical  analogy 
will  not  be  pursued  further,  but  the  theme  will  be  treated 
from  the  standpoint  of  practical  dramaturgy,  the  aim  ol 
the  author  being  to  point  out  (with  no  claim  to  originality) 
a  few  of  those  structural  elements  of  dramatic  composition 
which  seem  to  him  most  likely  to  stimulate  in  minds  of  an 
analytical  trend  an  interest  in  the  construction  and  devel- 
opment of  plays. 


wiax'\iis.K«a»>i.^i3K 


DEVELOPMENT  OF 
DRAMATIC  FORMS 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  DRAMATIC  FORMS 

The  Origin  of  the  Classical  Drama  —  The  Sacred  Drama  in  England 
—  Moralities  and  Interludes  —  The  Chronicle  Play  and  the  Trag- 
edy of  Blood  —  Comedy  and  Tragedy — The  Evolution  of  the 
Theatre. 

The  Origin  of  the  Play  Impulse. —  Before  considering 
the  structural  principles  of  dramatic  art,  it  may  be  well  to 
review  briefly  the  history  of  the  English  drama. 

The  early  life  of  nations  as  well  as  individuals  is 
marked  by  a  fondness  for  games  and  plays,  and  it  is. 
therefore,  to  the  childhood  of  the  human  race  that  we 
must  look  for  the  origin  of  the  play  impulse.  The  min- 
strels of  antiquity  catered  to  a  theatrical  taste,  and 
even  the  religious  worship  of  ancient  times  assumed  a 
dramatic  form. 

The  Evolution  of  the  Greek  Drama. —  It  was  out  of 

the  famous  choral  hymn  known  as  the  dithyramb,  sung 
in  honor  of  Dionysus,  or  Bacchus,  the  god  of  wine,  that 
the  Greek  drama  was  evolved.  About  the  year  536 
B.C.,  Thespis,  a  semi-legendary  Greek  poet,  is  supposed 
to  have  attached  to  the  old  dithyrambic  chorus  a  single 
actor  who  appeared  successively  in  different  roles,  re- 
citing his  monologues  in  the  intervals  of  the  choruses. 

27 


28  THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  DRAMATIC  FORMS 

The  Contribution  of  iEschylus. —  A  second  actor  was 
later  introduced  by  ^Eschylus.  This  actor  replied  to 
the  first,  and  dialogue  thus  superseded  monologue. 

The  Drama  of  Sophocles.  -  It  remained  for  Sophocles 
to  bring  a  third  performer  upon  the  scene.  Each  of 
the  three  actors  assumed  various  characters ;  wider  scope 
was  given  to  theatrical  representations,  and  the  chorus 
became  subsidiary. 

The  Source  of  the  English  Drama. —  Although  critics 
have  sought  to  prove  that  the  modern  drama  owes  its 
origin  to  the  Greek,  all  attempts  "to  link  together  the 
names  of  iEschylus  and  Shakespeare"  have  failed,  and 
it  is  now  generally  conceded  that  the  early  English 
plays  were  altogether  free  from  Greek  influence.  Dur- 
ing the  ascendency  of  imperial  Rome,  dramatic  pre- 
sentations were  forbidden  by  the  church,  but  in  the 
middle  ages  tableaux  were  employed  by  the  clergy  for 
illustration,  and  finally  liturgical  plays  began  to  be  given 
in  the  church  itself.  Thus,  the  modern  drama,  though 
springing  like  the  ancient  Greek  plays  from  religious 
worship,  is,  in  point  of  fact,  medieval  rather  than  classical 
in  its  origin. 

The  Mystery  Play.  —  Strictly  defined,  the  Mystery 
Plays  were  dramatizations  of  Bibhcal  stories  exclusively. 
The  name  ''mystery"  was  given  plays  of  this  description 
in  France.     They  were  not  so  termed  in  England. 


THE  INTERLUDE  29 

The  Miracle  Play. —  The  Miracle  Plays  dealt  with 
legendary  incidents  in  the  lives  of  the  saints  of  the 
church.  French  playwrights  are  supposed  to  have  intro- 
duced plays  of  this  character  into  England  after  the  Nor- 
man Conquest,  and  these  plays  were  doubtless  the  first 
which  the  Enghsh  pubHc  witnessed.  Later,  when  sacred 
dramas  began  to  be  written  in  English,  the  term  Miracle 
Play,  with  which  the  public  had  become  familiar  through 
the  French  performances,  was  applied  indiscriminately 
to  all  dramatic  representations  of  a  sacred  character, 
including  plays  more  properly  classified  as  Mysteries. 

The  Morality  Play. —  Allegory  was  the  distinguishing 
feature  of  the  Morality  Play.  The  characters  in  this 
class  of  drama  were  abstract  qualities  personified;  such, 
for  example,  as  Avarice,  Pride,  and  the  Hke.  Popular 
Moralities  were  Everyman  and  The  Castle  of  Per- 
severence.  This  t^pe  of  play  has  been  revived  exten- 
sively in  recent  years.  Walter  Browne's  Everywoman 
is  a  notable  example  of  the  modern  Morality  Play. 

The  Interlude. —  Interludes  were  short,  mirthful 
dramas  resembling  the  Morality  Play.  They  were  thus 
named  because  frequently  given  between  the  acts  of 
the  older  Mysteries  and  Moralities,  or  during  the  inter- 
vals of  festivals  and  other  celebrations.  As  an  evolu- 
tionary type  the  Interlude  is  important,  since  it  marked 
an  advance  in  dramatic  development  by  introducing  in 
place  of  personified  abstractions  individual  characters 
representing  different  classes  of  society.     For  example. 


30  THE  DEVELOPMEyr  OF  DRAMATIC  FORMS 

in  John  Heywood's  The  Four  P's,  the  characters  are  a 
Peddler,  a  Pardoner,  a  Palmer,  and  a  Poticary .  The  Inter- 
lude brought  the  drama  a  step  nearer  to  genuine  comedy. 

The  Chronicle  Play. —  The  Chronicle  Play  was  his- 
torical in  its  nature,  and  dealt  with  the  principal  events 
of  a  given  reign.  It  was  the  forerunner  of  the  great 
historical  dramas  of  Shakespeare.  Bale's  King  John 
is  a  well-known  specimen. 

The  Tragedy  of  Blood. —  As  the  name  signifies,  the 
Tragedy  of  Blood  was  crude,  sensational,  violent,  and 
brutal.  Thomas  Kyd's  Spanish  Tragedy,  replete 
with  murders  and  sudden  deaths,  belongs  to  this  type 
of  drama.  The  Tragedy  of  Blood  is  interesting  as  point- 
ing the  way  to  loftier  realms  of  art.  Indeed,  it  is  be- 
lieved that  Hamlet  was  founded  upon  an  old  Tragedy 
of   Blood. 

The  First  Comedy  and  Tragedy. —  Like  all  evolution- 
ary processes,  the  transition  from  liturgical  plays  to 
comedy  and  tragedy  was  infinitely  slow.  However, 
about  the  year  1551,  Kalp/i  Roister  Bolster,  the  first 
comedy  in  the  English  language,  was  written  by  Nicholas 
Udall.  This  was  followed,  some  ten  years  later,  by  the 
production  of  Sackville  and  Norton's  Gorbudiic,  which 
has  the  distinction  of  being  the  first  EngHsh  tragedy. 

Early  Methods  of  Dramatic  Presentation. —  The 
early  sacred  dramas  were  probably  first  performed  inside 


EARLY  PERFORM  A  XCES  31 

the  churches  by  the  i)riests.  Later,  they  were  presented 
on  stages  erected  outside  the  church,  the  audience  as- 
sembHng  in  the  churchyard.  At  length,  they  became 
dissociated  from  the  church  altogether,  and  were  given 
by  the  city  trades-guilds  either  in  the  halls  of  the  guilds, 
or  in  the  public  squares  on  platforms  attached  to  vehicles 
which  could  be  moved  from  place  to  place  in  the  town. 
There  were  usually  two  platforms,  one  placed  above  the 
other,  the  lower  platform  being  curtained  and  used  for  a 
dressing-room.  Each  guild  prepared  a  play,  the  story 
of  the  Bible  being  enacted  from  Creation  to  Doomsday. 

The  Origin  of  the  Pageant. —  The  plays  of  the  guilds 
were  given  in  succession,  one  vehicle  following  another 
to  the  place  of  performance.  "Originally  each  vehicle 
was  called  a  pageant,"  says  William  Echard  Golden  in 
his  History  of  tJie  English  Drama.  "Afterwards  the 
word  pageant  came  to  imply  the  show  as  well  as  the 
stage.  Finally  it  was  applied  to  the  whole  series  of 
shows,  whence  the  modern  meaning." 

The  Building  of  Theatres. —  Companies  of  strolling 
players  were  gradually  organized,  and  plays  began  to  be 
given  in  castles  and  in  the  courtyards  of  inns.  We  know^ 
that  one  roving  company  came  to  Stratford-on-Avon 
while  Shakespeare  was  a  youth.  At  first  it  was  neces- 
sary for  actors  to  attach  themselves  to  the  household  of 
some  nobleman  and  wear  his  livery,  in  order  to  escape 
punishment  under  the  laws  against  vagabondage,  but  as 
public  interest  in  playgoing  increased,  the  laws  became 


32  THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  DRAMATIC  FORMS 

less  stringent,  and  theatrical  companies  were  licensed 
to  perform.  At  last,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  permanent  playhouses  were  constructed,  and 
with  their  erection  the  English  drama  became  a  flourish- 
ing institution. 

Summary. —  Both  the  ancient  Greek  drama  and  the 
early  English  drama,  though  entirely  independent  of 
each  other,  originated  in  rehgious  worship.  At  first  con- 
fined to  the  field  of  Bible  stories,  the  English  drama 
slowly  broadened  its  scope,  (i)  embracing  the  legends  of 
the  saints,  (2)  teaching  moral  truth  by  personified  ab- 
stractions, (3)  introducing  individual  types,  and  (4) 
finally  portraying  human  character  in  action  through  the 
media  of  comedy  and  tragedy. 

Having  thus  considered  the  growth  of  dramatic  forms, 
we  now  begin  our  examination  of  the  internal  structure 
of  the  completed  play. 


:r>n«3J.]inca<:3': 


STRUCTURAL  PRINCIPLES 


CHAPTER  III 

STRUCTURAL  PRINCIPLES 

The  Unities  —  The  Influence  of  the  Playhouse  on  Dramatic  Structure 
—  The  Plot:  Its  Source  and  Form  —  Methods  of  Plot  Development. 

The  Three  Unities. —  No  canon  of  dramatic  art  has 
exerted  greater  influence  over  the  Hterature  of  the  stage 
than  has  the  "so-called  Aristotelian  law  of  unity  of  time, 
of  place  and  of  action."  Though  attributed  to  Aristotle, 
the  theory  of  the  three  unities,  as  Professor  Brander 
Matthews  has  explained,  was  probably  "worked  out 
by  the  supersubtle  Italian  critics  of  the  Renascence." 
Briefly  defined,  this  law  may  be  said  to  demand  (i) 
that  the  scene  of  a  play  be  laid  in  one  place,  (2)  that  the 
series  of  acted  events  be  such  as  might  occur  approxi- 
mately within  the  time  required  to  present  the  play, 
and  (3)  that  nothing  be  admitted  which  is  "irrelevant 
to  the  development  of  the  single  plot." 

Observance  of  the  Unities  by  Ibsen  and  by  Shake- 
speare.—  The  great  Norwegian  playwright  Ibsen,  though 
in  many  respects  revolutionary,  has  not  infrequently 
observed  both  unity  of  place  and  unity  of  time;  and  even 
Shakespeare,  whose  mighty  creative  genius  was  naturally 
intolerant  of  conventional  restraint,  paid  due  homage  to 

37 


38  STRrCTCRM.  /'/</. W/J'LES 

these  rules  in  llic  Tcmpcsl  and  in  TJic  Comedy  of 
Errors.  For  the  most  pail,  however,  Shakespeare  seems 
to  have  felt  it  unnecessary  to  conform  to  these  artistic 
laws,  being  able  by  his  unerring  intuition  to  attain, 
without  their  artificial  aid,  that  full  and  perfect  harmony 
of  plot,  structure,  and  tone,  which  the  unities  were 
designed  to  secure. 

Modern  Observance  of  the  Unities. —  But  some  of 
our  modern  dramatists  have  apparently  considered  it 
incumbent  upon  them  to  yield  strict  obedience  to  these 
classic  mandates.  The  scene  of  Charles  Rann  Kennedy's 
remarkable  play  The  Servant  in  tJie  House  is  laid  in 
a  single  room,  and  the  action  is  continuous,  the  char- 
acters at  the  opening  of  each  succeeding  act  taking  up 
the  dialogue  at  the  point  of  its  termination  in  the  pre- 
ceding act. 

The  True  Purpose  of  the  Unities  of  Time  and  Place. — 

Concerning  the  unities  of  time  and  place,  it  is  important 
to  remember  that  they  are  at  best  mere  artiticial  limita- 
tions, designed  primarily  for  the  purpose  of  attaining 
that  complete  unity  of  structure  which  every  true  work 
of  art  should  possess.  They  are  "purely  fictitious  prin- 
ciples," says  Ward  in  his  Introduction  to  Englis/i 
Dramatic  Literature,  "to  either  of  which  it  may  be 
convenient  to  adhere  in  order  to  make  the  unity  of  an 
action  more  distinctly  perceptible,  and  either  of  which 
may  with  equal  propriety  be  disregarded  in  order  to  give 
the  action  probabiHty." 


THE  UNITIES  3g 

What  Constitutes  Compliance  with  Unity  of  Place. — 
These  laws  do  not  always  demand  absolute  allegiance. 
Thus,  in  the  successive  acts  of  a  drama,  the  playwright 
may  give  us  different  glimpses  of  the  same  uniform  scene, 
and  yet  show  adequate  deference  to  the  scenic  unity  of 
place.  This  is  true  of  Tlie  Tempest,  where  Shake- 
speare, though  confining  the  locality  of  his  action  to  the 
geographical  limits  of  a  single  island,  yet  presents  to 
our  view  different  parts  of  that  island. 

What  Constitutes  Compliance  with  Unity  of  Time.  — 

In  general,  it  may  be  said  that  unity  of  time  is  suffici- 
ently observed  if  the  acted  events  of  a  given  play  are 
represented  as  happening  within  the  space  of  twenty- 
four  hours. 

Narration  of  Prior  Occurrences. —  But  it  is  interest- 
ing to  note  that  the  playwright  who  adheres  to  the  above 
rule  with  any  degree  of  strictness  is  compelled  to  sus- 
pend the  forward  movement  of  his  play  while  the  char- 
acters are  made  to  relate  certain  incidents  of  prior  occur- 
rence from  which  the  onward  motion  of  the  drama  has 
received  its  primary  impulse.  Again  referring  to  Tlie 
Tempest,  Professor  Richard  G.  Moulton  in  his  Shake- 
speare as  a  Dramatic  Artist  calls  attention  to  the  fact 
that  ''when  the  keynote  of  the  action  has  been  struck 
by  the  brief  dialogue  between  Prospero  and  Miranda, 
the  action  stands  still  for  more  than  three  hundred 
lines,  and  the  interval  is  used  to  give  us  back-glances 
into  the  past." 


40  STRUCTURAL  PRINCIPLES 

Unity  of  Action.  —  Unity  of  action  demands  (i)  a 
single  plot,  and  (2)  the  rigorous  exclusion  of  all  that  does 
not  contribute  directly  to  the  development  of  that  plot. 
Sophocles  and  the  other  early  Greek  dramatists  were 
strict  followers  of  this  rule.  To  them  "unity  of  action" 
was  synonymous  with  "single  action/'  and  meant  hardly 
more  than  the  development  of  a  single  idea  (as,  for 
instance,  a  crime  and  its  punishment)  by  a  series  of 
closely  connected  events.  But  Shakespeare,  while  he 
never  failed  to  unite  the  component  parts  of  his  drama 
into  a  single  whole,  seldom  regarded  an  inflexible  law  of 
plot  restriction  as  a  necessary  means  to  this  end. 

The  Influence  of  the  Elizabethan  Theatre  on  Dra- 
matic Structure. —  Any  intelligent  consideration  of  the 
structural  side  of  the  Shakespearian  drama,  however, 
should  take  account  of  the  circumstances  under  which 
Shakespeare's  plays  were  actually  performed.  The  the- 
atres of  Shakespeare's  time  were  modeled  after  the 
old  courtyards;  they  were  poorly  lighted,  and  were 
practically  devoid  of  scenery.  The  playgoer  was  ex- 
pected to  draw  upon  his  imagination  with  the  utmost 
freedom.  The  mind  that  could  visualize  the  resplendent 
beauty  of  Venice  without  pictorial  representation  was  not 
likely  to  complain  of  any  lack  of  unity  even  in  a  play 
which  was  compounded  of  two  stories,  which  transferred 
the  scene  back  and  forth  from  Venice  to  Belmont,  and 
which  extended  over  a  sufficient  period  of  time  to  account 
for  Antonio's  losses. 

The  subdivision  of  acts  into  scenes  (and  it  has  been 


INFLUENCE  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE  41 

questioned  if  Shakespeare  ever  made  such  subdivision) 
could  not  have  interfered  in  the  slightest  degree  with  the 
continuity  of  the  dramatic  movement,  since  there  was  no 
scenery  to  be  set,  and  the  characters  of  the  coming  scene 
simply  moved  forward  as  their  predecessors  receded 
from  view.  Much  that  scenery  nov/  accomplishes  had 
then  to  be  supplied  by  words,  and  we  should  be  careful 
not  to  lose  sight  of  that  fact  when  we  criticise  the  con- 
struction of  a  Shakespearian  play. 

The  Influence  of  the  Modern  Theatre  on  Dramatic 
Structure. —  The  conditions  surrounding  the  modern  the- 
atre are  vastly  different  from  those  surrounding  the 
theatre  of  Shakespeare's  time.  The  required  atmos- 
phere is  now  produced  largely  by  artistically  conceived 
stage-settings  and  wonderfully  manipulated  lights  —  an 
environment  which  calls  for  a  drama,  compact,  clear-cut, 
and  stripped  of  non-essentials,  a  drama,  in  short,  that  is 
built  on  scientific  lines.  In  the  rush  of  contemporary  life, 
the  voice  that  is  heeded  must  speak  a  direct,  forceful 
message;  and  the  play  that  carries  a  swift  and  strong  ap- 
peal is  quite  likely  to  conform  to  the  unity  of  action. 

The  Plot. —  Plot  has  been  defined  as  "the  story  of  a 
play,  poem,  novel  or  romance  comprising  a  complication 
of  incidents  which  are  at  last  unfolded  by  unexpected 
means." 

The  Sources  of  the  Plot. —  Plots  may  be  either  orig- 
inal or  borrowed.     Shakespeare  was  largely  indebted  to 


42  STRUCTURAL  TRINCIPULS 

otluT  writers  tor  the  ])lot  niuterials  out  of  which  he  con- 
structed his  plays.  The  story  of  the  pound  of  flesh  and 
the  tale  of  the  caskets  had  long  been  embodied  in  story 
form  when  Shakespeare  wrote  The  Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice. A  modern  instance  of  borrowed  plot  material  is 
to  be  found  in  The  Heart  of  Maryland  by  David 
Relasco.  In  this  play,  the  incident  of  the  girl  who  saved 
her  lover's  life  by  hanging  to  the  clapper  of  the  bell  so 
that  the  alarm  could  not  be  given  was  doul^tless  sug- 
gested by  the  popular  poem  Curfew  Must  not  Ring  To- 
night. 

The  Form  of  the  Plot. —  Plots  may  be  simple  or  com- 
plex. Shakespeare's  Julius  Ccesar  is  a  good  illustra- 
tion of  simple  plot,  comprising  as  it  does  a  single  story 
dealing  with  the  contest  betv/een  Caesar's  friends  and 
Caesar's  enemies.  The  plot  of  King  Lear,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  extremely  complex,  being  composed  of  a 
number  of  separate  actions  and  their  combinations. 

The  Arch-Like  Method  of  Plot  Development. —  The 

favorite  Shakespearian  method  of  plot  development  is 
arch-like  in  form,  comprising  a  regular  rise  and  fall  of 
fortune  or  passion,  with  the  turning  point  in  the  centre  of 
the  play.  Professor  Moulton,  in  his  work  already  re- 
ferred to,  points  out  the  fact  that  Macbeth's  undertak- 
ings are  uniformly  successful  up  to  the  time  he  despatches 
the  murderers  against  Banquo  and  Fleance.  This  enter- 
prise is  only  half  successful,  since  Fleance  escapes.  The 
escape  of  Fleance,  which  occurs  in  the  exact  centre  of 


j-:3Ji':ujJi!i}>  *r^- 


THE  PLOT  45 

the  play,  is  the  turning  point  of  the  plot  (or  "keystone 
to  the  arch"),  and  from  that  instant  disaster  attends 
Macbeth's  every  move  till  the  culmination  of  the  tragedy. 

The  "Rise  and  Fall"  Method  Applied  to  Groups  of 
Plays. —  Shakespeare  has  also  employed  this  method  of 
depicting  a  rise  and  fall  of  fortune  in  the  treatment  of 
the  motif  which  underlies  certain  groups  of  plays.  Thus 
the  ten  historical  dramas  {King  John,  Richard  II ,  the 
two  parts  of  Henry  IV ,  Henry  F,  the  three  parts  of  Henry 
VI,  Richard  III,  and  Henry  VIII)  have  been  regarded 
by  certain  critics  as  ten  separate  acts  in  a  colossal  drama 
deahng  with  the  usurpation  of  the  Enghsh  throne  by 
the  House  of  Lancaster,  the  prologue  of  which  is  King 
John,  the  epilogue,  Henry  VIII  —  the  rise  of  fortune 
culminating  in  Henry  V. 

Likewise  the  four  tragedies,  Coriolanus,  Julius  CcEsar, 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  and  Timon  of  Athens,  have  been 
thought  to  represent  the  rise  and  fall  of  Roman  power. 

The  Catastrophic  Method  of  Plot  Development. —  A 

very  different  method  of  plot  development  is  that  which 
Edmund  Gosse  attributes  to  Ibsen.  Mr.  Gosse  does  not 
find  in  the  Ibsen  plays  any  attempt  to  depict  a  rise  and 
fall  of  fortune.  The  period  of  success  is  over  and  the 
impetus  downward  has  been  received  before  the  play 
opens.  It  is  not  the  cause  but  the  result  that  engages 
Ibsen's  attention,  and  in  his  ''analysis  of  fatal  conse- 
quences he  has  been  thought  more  to  resemble  Sophocles 
than  any  of  the  moderns."     Mr.   Gosse  believes  that 


46  STRUCTURAL  PRINCIPLES 

Ibsen  has  "added  a  new  l)ranch  to  dramatic  literature 
by  inventing  the  drama  of  catastrophe." 

"Ghosts"  as  an  Example  of  the  "Drama  of  Catas- 
trophe." —  The  gruesome  Httle  tragedy  Ghosts  is  an 
excellent  example  of  the  particular  form  of  dramatic 
expression  to  which  Mr.  Gosse  calls  attention.  Heredity 
is  the  problem  of  the  play.  The  young  man  who  figures 
so  conspicuously  in  the  drama  is  the  son  of  a  dissipated 
and  dissolute  father,  whose  profligate  life  is  reflected  in 
the  mental  fibre  of  his  son.  Debarred  by  his  inheritance 
from  pursuing  the  artistic  career  which  he  craves,  the 
young  man  turns  for  sympathy  and  love  to  the  girl  of 
his  choice  only  to  find  that  she  is  an  illegitimate  daughter 
of  his  own  father,  and  that  marriage  with  her  is  there- 
fore impossible. 

Fully  aware  that  he  must  pay  the  price  of  his  dead 
father's  misdeeds,  the  son  pledges  his  mother  to  take  his 
life  when  the  first  symptom  of  his  dreaded  malady  mani- 
fests itself;  then,  with  bitterness  in  his  heart,  he  awaits 
the  end.  It  comes  accompanied  by  all  the  theatrical 
splendor  of  a  roseate  dawn,  and  the  boy,  his  brain  fast 
weakening  into  idiocy,  pleads  piteously  to  be  given  the 
rising  sun. 

The  mother  tears  her  hair  and  shrieks  with  horror  as 
she  realizes  that  her  boy's  dread  prophecy  is  fulfilled. 
Then,  remembering  her  pledge,  she  falls  on  her  knees 
before  him,  and  is  groping  frantically  in  his  pockets 
for  the  fatal  drug,  when  the  curtain  mercifully  descends 
upon  the  scene. 


Sr.\f-]fARV  47 

The  reader  of  this  })lay  will  be  impressed  by  the 
fact  that  the  "primary  circumstance,"  the  sin  of  the 
father,  antedates  the  action  of  the  drama.  The  seed 
has  been  sown  when  the  play  begins,  and  it  is  the  harvest 
of  ''fatal  consequences" — the  "inevitable  catastrophe" — 
with  which  Ibsen  is  chiefly  concerned. 

Summary. —  We  have  thus  seen  that  for  the  purpose 
of  molding  his  work  into  a  harmonious  whole,  the  pla}- 
wright  frequently  adopts  definite  artificial  rules  called 
the  three  unities;  that  the  story  of  the  drama  may  be 
borrowed  or  original,  simple  or  complex,  and  that  there 
are  two  notable  types  of  plot  development. 

With  these  structural  principles  in  mind,  we  now  pass 
to  a  consideration  of  some  of  the  more  minute  details 
of  dramatic  workmanship. 


NATURALNESS 
HEIGHTENED  EFFECTS 


CHAPTER  IV 

NATURALNESS  AND  HEIGHTENED  EFFECTS 

Prose  as  the  Natural  Vehicle  of  Expression — ^The  Substitution  of 
Action  for  Soliloquy  —  Methods  of  Introducing  Light,  Music, 
Tumult,  and  other  Emotional  Stimuli  — Humanizing  Methods  — 
Incredulous  Events  Rendered  Natural  by  Anticipatory  Allusion  — 
The  Introduction  of  Objects. 

The  Decline  of  Verse. —  Naturalness  is  the  keynote 
of  all  modern  art,  and  nowhere  is  that  note  more  insist- 
ently sounded  than  in  the  modern  drama.  People  in 
real  life  do  not  speak  in  metrical  numbers,  and  for  that 
reason  writers  of  acted  plays  of  the  present  day  have 
quite  generally  discarded  blank  verse  as  a  vehicle  of 
dramatic  utterance.  Ibsen's  early  plays  were  written 
in  verse,  but  his  conviction  that  he  could  not  create 
the  illusion  of  actual  occurrences  and  true  living  char- 
acters by  the  use  of  rhythmic  dialogue  led  him  to  adopt 
prose  in  the  composition  of  his  later  and  more  realistic 
dramas.  He  felt  that  the  form  of  literary  expression 
should  be  determined  by  the  degree  of  ideality  with 
which  the  subject  was  treated;  he  "would  not  have  the 
Venus  of  Milo  painted,"  but  "would  rather  see  a  negro's 
head  carved  in  black  marble  than  in  white." 

The  Soliloquy  and  "Aside." —  For  a  precisely  similar 
reason,  the  soliloquy,  so  popular  in  the  Shakespearian 

SI 


52  NATURALNESS  AND  HEIGHTENED  EFFECTS 

drama,  does  not  meet  with  general  favor  among  modern 
playwrights.  And  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  old- 
fashioned  "aside." 

Substitution  of  Action  for  Soliloquy. —  An  interesting 
substitution  of  ''action"  for  verbal  soliloquy  is  found  in 
Her  Own  Way  by  Clyde  Fitch.  When  the  curtain 
rises  on  the  last  act  of  this  play,  the  heroine  is  discovered 
seated  at  the  piano  playing  Schumann's  Traumerei. 
At  the  close  of  the  preceding  act  she  has  received  news  of 
her  lover's  death,  and  after  the  first  poignant  pangs  of 
grief  have  subsided,  her  sorrow  finds  tangible  expression 
through  the  medium  of  music.  It  is  a  tremendously 
effective  bit  of  realism,  and  speaks  to  the  average  play- 
goer much  more  eloquently  than  words. 

The  Value  of  Music  and  Light.  —  Augustus  Thomas 
gives  us  a  very  clever  exposition  of  the  dramatic  value  of 
color  in  his  play  The  Harvest  Moon.  Indeed,  from 
time  immemorial,  music  and  light  have  been  recognized 
by  play  producers  as  important  factors  in  stimulating 
the  emotion.  "Certainly  Shakespeare  knew  what  he 
was  about,"  says  Belasco,  "when  he  placed  his  scene  be- 
tween Romeo  and  Juliet  on  the  balcony  in  the  soft  rays 
of  the  moon." 

Unfortunately,  stage  managers  and  dramatists  have 
not  always  adopted  the  Shakespearian  method  of  intro- 
ducing this  emotional  stimulus.  Incidental  music  from 
the  orchestra  pit  and  red  fire  from  the  wings  were  popular 
in  melodrama  a  generation  ago,  and  it  did  not  matter 


'  iriMiH 


■■EKT'TvJJ  -1 '  '.i.'-^^F^ 


BB.'WIDD    «i.Aa€KICia£ 


EMOTIONAL  STIMULI  55 

that  these  effects  were  utterly  irrelevant  to  the  play 
itself,  so  long  as  a  dramatic  situation  was  apparently 
heightened  thereby. 

The  Natural  Introduction  of  Music  and  Light,  —  liut 
the  more  artistic  playwrights  of  our  own  time,  following 
the  lead  of  Shakespeare,  strive  to  secure  the  benefit 
of  these  artificial  devices  in  natural  ways.  They  there- 
fore introduce  music,  when  desired,  as  an  essential 
feature  of  their  plots,  while  moonlight,  sunrise,  sunset, 
etc.,  are  natural  channels  through  which  the  requisite 
light  effects  may  be  obtained. 

In  Charles  Klein's  admirable  play  The  Music  A  fas- 
ter, the  most  delicate  musical  illusion  is  produced  by 
the  practicing  of  the  master's  symphony  in  an  adjoining 
room,  the  symphony  itself  playing  a  vital  part  in  the 
development  of  the  story.  A  like  purpose  is  served 
by  Pietro's  composition  The  Song  of  the  Soul  in 
Edward  Locke's  TJie  Climax,  and  by  Arany's  piano 
solos  in  Leo  Ditrichstein's  version  of  Herman  Bahr's 
The  Concert.  The  glow  of  dawn  lends  color  to  the  closing 
scene  of  Ghosts,  and  it  is  a  bit  of  dramatic  economy  worth 
noting  that  the  first  outward  symptom  of  Oswald's 
shattered  intellect  is  his  request  to  be  given  the  sun. 

Noise,  Tumult,  and  Commotion.^  In  like  manner,  the 
crash  of  thunder,  the  rattle  of  artillery,  the  clatter  of 
horses'  hoofs,  the  roar  of  the  mob,  etc.,  are  effective 
methods  of  extracting  dramatic  value  from  noise,  tumult 
or  commotion. 


S6  NATURALNESS  AND  HEIGHTENED  EFFECTS 

Analogy  Between  Natural  Phenomena  and  Human 
Passion. —  Moreover,  the  analogy  between  natural  phe- 
nomena and  the  stress  of  human  passion  is  often  most 
effectively  utilized. 

"Nor  Heaven  nor  Earth  have  been  at  peace  to-night," 
declares  Caesar  as  the  hour  of  his  assassination  approaches. 
Macbeth,  fresh  from  the  murder  of  Duncan,  exclaims: 

"I  have  done  the  deed.     Didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise  ? 
Whereupon  Lady  Macbeth    replies: 

"I  heard  the  owl  scream  and  the  crickets  cry." 
Says  Lennox: 

"The  night  has  been  unruly;  where  we  lay, 
Our  chimneys  were  blown  down.     .     .     . 

Some  say  the  earth 
Was  feverous  and  did  shake." 

In  King  Lear,  the  tempest  of  human  emotion  reaches 
its  culmination  in  the  madness  of  the  king,  and  the 
psychic  storm  which  shakes  the  old  monarch  finds  its 
parallel  in  the  raging  of  the  elements. 

Use  of  Natural  Phenomena  to  Evoke  Sympathy  and 
Intensify  the  Climax. —  Dramatic  literature  of  a  more 
recent  period  is  replete  wdth  similar  situations.  "The 
Girl  of  the  Golden  West"  in  a  very  whirlwind  of  passion 
turns  the  "road-agent"  out  of  her  cabin  into  the  bliz- 
zard. Similarly,  Dame  Van  Winkle,  with  a  torrent  of 
vituperation,  consigns  the  long-suffering  Rip  to  the 
fury  of  the  storm. 

In  each  of  these  instances  it  will  be  observed  that  the 
introduction  of  natural  phenomena  serves  both  to  excite 


HUMANIZING  PROCESS  57 

the  sympathy  of  the  audience  and  to  intensify  the  dra- 
matic cHmax. 

The  Humanizing  Process. —  The  dramatist  who  strives 
sincerely  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature,  realizing  that 
in  life  few  persons  are  utterly  bad,  frequently  endeavors 
to  counteract  the  influence  of  any  unattractive  qualities 
which  his  characters  may  possess  by  bestowing  upon 
them  other  nobler  attributes,  or  by  placing  them  in 
situations  which  have  a  tendency  to  awaken  the  pity 
and  compassion  of  an  audience. 

This  humanizing  process  is  strikingly  exemplified  in 
the  character  of  Shylock,  whose  repellant  personality  is 
appreciably  softened  by  his  love  for  Jessica,  his  domestic 
trouble,  and  the  ill  treatment  to  which  he,  as  a  repre- 
sentative Jew,  is  continually  subjected. 

So,  also,  the  inveterate  good  nature  of  Rip  Van  Winkle 
contrasted  with  the  vitriolic  temper  of  his  spouse,  his 
affection  for  the  village  children,  and  his  attachment 
to  his  dog,  serve  to  transform  the  drunken  vagabond  into 
a  wondrously  lovable  being. 

Even  so  inhuman  a  wretch  as  Gloucester  in  Shake- 
speare's Richard  III  possesses  a  few  admirable  qualities, 
such  as  physical  bravery  and  intellectual  power.  In- 
deed, in  portraying  this  character,  Shakespeare  has  em- 
ployed the  humanizing  method  so  far  as  is  consistent 
with  the  delineation  of  an  utterly  heartless  monster  of 
villainy  and  crime.  Gloucester's  very  physical  deform- 
ity, repulsive  as  it  is,  offers  some  slight  excuse  for  his 
malevolence.     Feeling  that  his  misshapen  body  is  some- 


58  NATURALNESS  AND  HEIGHTENED  EFFECTS 

how  responsible  for  his  depraved  mind,  we  are  inclined 
to  pity  him  when  he  thus  bitterly  describes  himsell: 
"Cheated  of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 
Deform'd,  unfinished,  sent  before  my  time 
Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  up, 
And  that  so  lamely  and  unfashionable 
That  dogs  bark  at  me  as  I  halt  by  them." 

Preparation  for  Improbable  Events  by  Anticipatory 
Allusion.  —  A  dramatic  event  in  itself  incredulous  or 
fanciful  is  given  the  semblance  of  reality  by  natural 
allusions  or  explanations  made  in  anticipation  of  its 
approach.  It  is  somewhat  improbable  that  the  young 
men  in  Goldsmith's  comedy  She  Stoops  to  Conquer 
should  have  mistaken  Hardcastle's  house  for  an  inn, 
yet  the  mistake  does  not  seem  altogether  unnatural 
when  we  have  been  prepared  for  it  by  such  speeches 
as  that  of  Mrs.  Hardcastle  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
play,  when  she  exclaims:  ''Here  we  live  in  an  old  rum- 
bling mansion,  that  looks  for  all  the  world  like  an  inn." 

After  Tony  Lumpkin  is  described  by  Hardcastle  as 
"a  mere  composition  of  tricks  and  mischief,"  we  are  not 
surprised  at  the  prank  which  he  plays  upon  young  Mar- 
low  and  Hastings,  while  the  prank  itself  affords  reason- 
able occasion  for  the  ludicrous  situations  which  follow. 
We  are  prepared  too  for  the  greatest  "mistake  of  the 
night,"  Marlow's  behef  that  Kate  is  a  bar-maid,  by 
several  anticipatory  hints,  the  first  of  which  is  given 
by  Kate  herself  upon  her  entrance,  wdien  she  answers 
Hardcastle's  criticism  of  her  appearance  with  these  words: 


ASriCIPATOIiV  ALLUSION  5g 

''You  know  our  agreement,  sir.  You  allow  me  the 
morning  to  receive  and  pay  visits,  and  to  dress  in  my 
own  manner;  and  in  the  evening  I  put  on  my  housewife's 
dress  to  please  you." 

Shakespeare's  plays  abound  in  subtle  touches  of  a 
like  character,  an  interesting  example  of  which  occurs 
in  Twelfth  Night.  Viola,  separated  from  her  brother 
by  shipwreck,  is  left  without  protection  in  an  unknown 
land.  Having  reason  to  believe  that  her  brother  is  still 
alive,  she  naturally  wishes  to  remain  in  the  country  till 
news  of  him  can  be  obtained.  Inclined  at  first  to  seek 
the  assistance  of  the  Countess  Olivia,  she  is  told  that 
this  'Virtuous  maid,"  because  of  a  recent  bereavement 
has  "abjured  company,"  and  "will  admit  no  kind  of 
suit."  The  country  is  governed  by  Duke  Orsino,  in 
whom  Viola's  interest  is  aroused  from  the  fact  that  she 
remembers  to  have  heard  her  father  "name  him." 
But  Orsino  is  a  "bachelor,"  and  she  cannot  with  pro- 
priety present  herself  at  his  court.  This  state  of  affairs 
is  adroitly  set  forth  in  the  dialogue  of  the  second  scene, 
and  so  deftly  is  the  way  made  ready  for  its  approach, 
that  Viola's  determination  to  don  boy's  attire  and  enter 
the  service  of  the  Duke,  so  far  from  presenting  a  fan- 
tastic and  improbable  aspect,  seems  not  only  plausible 
but  obvious. 

Similarly,  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice  Antonio's 
losses  are  foreshadowed  almost  from  the  start,  and  in  the 
earlier  scenes  of  Sardou's  Diplomacy  the  great  French 
dramatist,  by  repeated  natural  references  to  the  pungent 
odor  of  the  perfume  which  the  Countess  affects,  skilfully 


6o  NATURALNESS  AND  HEIGHTENED  EFFECTS 

prepares  his  audience  for  the  somewhat  fanciful  role 
which  this  perfume  later  plays  in  untangling  the  dramatic 
mystery. 

Natural  Introduction  of  Implements  Which  Later 
Are  to  Serve  a  Dramatic  Purpose. —  Where  the  use  of 
implements  is  necessary  at  some  crisis  in  a  play,  dra- 
matic artists  are  careful  to  introduce  such  implements 
in  a  natural  manner.  The  pistols  which  play  so  sanguin- 
ary a  part  in  Hedda  Gabler  are  described  in  the  first 
act  as  having  once  belonged  to  Hedda's  father,  and  as 
used  by  Hedda  to  "amuse"  herself.  The  revolver  with 
which  Colonel  Schwartz  threatens  his  daughter,  in  the 
last  act  of  Sudermann's  Magda,  is  brought  naturahy 
into  the  scene  by  Colonel  Schwartz  when  he  declares 
his  intention  of  fighting  Magda's  betrayer. 

In  The  Mummy  and  the  Humming  Bird,  Giuseppe 
tells  his  story  with  the  aid  of  the  syphon,  the  decanter, 
and  the  broken  plate  —  objects  which  have  a  natural 
place  at  the  supper  which  Giuseppe  is  asked  to  share. 
The  ivory  tusk  with  which  Clay  Whipple,  in  The 
Witching  Hour,  kills  the  young  man  who  maddens 
him  with  the  cat's-eye  jewel  is  a  part  of  the  furnishings 
of  Brookfield's  library,  and  is  first  called  to  the  attention 
of  the  audience  by  being  brushed  accidentally  from  the 
table  by  Mrs.  Whipple,  and  afterwards  picked  up  from 
the  floor  by  Brookfield,  who  fingers  it  nervously  for  a 
few  moments  before  restoring  it  to  its  former  position 
where  it  is  ready  for  Whipple's  hand  at  the  critical 
instant. 


RECAPITULATION  6i 

Recapitulation. —  The  masters  of  dramatic  art  seek 
to  eliminate  from  their  work,  so  far  as  possible,  all  ap- 
pearance of  artificiality,  and  they  attain  this  result 
through  careful  attention  to  details.  Characters  do  not 
appeal  to  an  audience  as  human  unless  they  talk  natur- 
ally, and  have  the  "elements  so  mix'd"  in  them  that 
they  are  neither  paragons  of  virtue  nor  ogres  of  vice; 
light,  music,  and  tumult  possess  true  dramatic  value 
only  when  woven  into  the  very  warp  and  woof  of  the  play 
itself;  situations  intrinsically  unreal  become  more  plaus- 
ible when  anticipated  by  natural  explanations  or  al- 
lusions, and  instrumentalities  which  serve  a  purpose  at 
crucial  moments  seem  less  miraculously  at  hand  if  they 
have  been  previously  introduced  in  a  natural  fashion,  — 
in  short,  the  well-constructed  drama  is  logical,  not  only 
in  its  portrayal  of  character,  but  in  the  concatenation  of 
circumstances  which  comprise  its  plot. 


ECONOMY 

RETENTION  OF  INTEREST 


CHAPTER  V 

ECONOMY  AND  RETENTION  OF  INTEREST 

Economy  Applied  to  Characters,  Objects,  and  Events  —  Contrast  and 
Conflict  as  Dramatic  Principles  —  Popular  Appeal  in  the  Choice 
and  Treatment  of  the  Theme  —  The  Importance  of  Action  —  The 
Duty  of  Playgoers  to  Dramatist  and  Actors. 

Dramatic  Economy. —  In  a  limited  sense,  the  play- 
wright who  practices  strict  dramatic  economy  does  not 
depict  with  absolute  fidelity  the  actual  conditions  of  hu- 
man existence,  since  there  are  countless  daily  occurrences 
in  the  life  of  every  individual  which  seem  to  have  little,  if 
any,  structural  significance  in  the  Hfe  drama  for  which  he 
is  cast.  Yet,  in  a  broader  sense,  the  dramatist  who  binds 
his  situations  together  with  the  mighty  chain  of  cause  and 
effect,  carefully  selecting  the  essential  and  rejecting  the 
non-essential,  tacitly  recognizes  that  Nature  is  the  great 
economist,  and  that  every  human  event,  however  trivial, 
has  its  place  in  the  great  economic  scheme  of  things. 

In  short,  his  aim  is  to  reveal  the  principles  of  truth 
which  underlie  human  endeavor  rather  than  to  picture 
with  photographic  nicety  the  mere  external  manifesta- 
tions of  life.  He  presupposes  some  imaginative  faculty 
on  the  part  of  his  hearers,  and  exclaims  with  Shake- 
speare: ''The  best  in  its  kind  are  but  shadows;  and 
the  worst  are  no  worse,  if  imagination  amend  them." 


66  ECONOMY  AND  RETENTION  OF  INTEREST 

The  following  arc  a  few  examples  of  the  way  in  which 
the  great  principle  of  economy  has  been  practised  in 
dramatic  construction: 

Economy  in  Characters. —  Economy  in  the  use  of 
characters  is  peculiarly  essential  where  the  exigencies 
of  plot  development  require  the  weaving  together  of 
two  or  more  distinct  stories.  Thus,  in  The  Merchanl 
of  Venice,  the  story  of  the  bond  is  connected  with  the 
tale  of  the  caskets  by  the  single  character  Bassanio. 
whose  fortunes  ultimately  involve  all  the  characters  of 
the  former  story  until  both  are  completely  fused  in  the 
trial  scene. 

Economy  in  the  Use  of  Objects. —  The  Merchant  of 
Venice  also  furnishes  an  excellent  example  of  economy 
in  the  introduction  of  objects.  The  story  of  the  rings 
is  utilized  as  a  means  of  revealing  to  Bassanio  the  identity 
of  Portia,  thereby  avoiding  an  abrupt  and  undramatic 
explanation.  At  the  same  time,  the  episode  serves  to 
conceal  the  improbability  of  Portia's  disguise  by  divert- 
ing attention  at  a  moment  when  the  impossibihty  of 
her  undertaking  would  otherwise  be  most  apparent. 
Furthermore,  the  story  of  the  rings  tends  to  disclose 
the  lighter  side  of  Portia's  character,  and  to  test  both  the 
love  and  friendship  of  Bassanio. 

Economy  in  Marshaling  Events. —  Economy  in  the 
marshaling  of  dramatic  events  is  well  exempHlied  in 
Richard  III,  where  one  crime  grows  naturally  out   of 


«>3^3-%-K3?.  «5C9J^a>^:>anf!B[ 


DRAMATIC  ECONOMY  69 

another    without    apparent    design    on    the    part    of 
Gloucester. 

Irony  and  Economy. —  A  humorous  or  ironic  situation 
is  frequently  heightened  by  the  employment  of  some 
economic  device,  as,  for  example,  in  Gilbert  and  Sulli- 
van's Pinafore,  where  the  argument  with  which  Sir 
Joseph  seeks  to  justify  his  proposed  marriage  with 
Josephine  —  "love  levels  all  ranks"  —  is  the  very  argu- 
ment which  finally  induces  Josephine  to  bestow  her 
hand  upon  a  common  sailor. 

The  Practical  Side  of  Dramatic  Economy. —  The  play- 
wright must  tell  his  story  within  the  three  hours  or  less 
which  the  theatre  allots  him,  and  tell  it  usually  to  an 
audience  of  widely  varying  tastes,  sympathies,  and  intel- 
ligence, whose  attention  he  must  capture  at  the  start 
and  retain  to  the  end.  In  this  he  is  not  likely  to  suc- 
ceed unless  he  has  the  courage  to  discard  all  lines,  char- 
acters, or  situations  (however  meritorious  in  themselves) 
which  tend  to  impede  the  direct  advancement  of  his 
plot.  Says  Marguerite  Merington:  "Every  word,  essen- 
tial gesture,  expressive  silence,  devised  by  the  play- 
wright, must  find  its  motive  in  the  psychic  essence 
of  the  part,  must  tend  to  some  definite  dramatic  end  in 
the  structure  of  the  play." 

Even  characters  whose  presence  is  important  in  creat- 
ing a  desired  atmosphere  ought  to  serve  some  additional 
purpose.  In  Julius  Cccsar,  the  Soothsayer  not  only 
constitutes  a  significant  detail  in  the  picture  of  Roman 


70  ECONOMY  AND  RETENTION  OF  INTEREST 

life,  but  affords  a  medium  through  which  may  be  given 
an  anticipatory  hint  of  Caesar's  impending  doom. 

Contrast. —  Contrast  is  a  powerful  weapon  in  the 
hand  of  the  play-builder.  The  success  of  that  class  of 
plays  of  which  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda  is  a  notable 
type  is  due  in  no  small  degree  to  the  fact  that  thepractical, 
prosaic  characters  of  our  own  time  are  placed  in  a  dra- 
matic environment  replete  with  the  customs  and  ideals 
of  a  romantic  age. 

The  comparison  of  country  life  wdth  city  life  forms 
the  basis  of  many  humorous  situations  in  popular  rural 
plays,  such  as  The  Old  Homestead  and  The  Re- 
juvenation of  Aunt  Mary.  The  calm  and  nonchalant 
demeanor  of  Travers,  the  imperturbable  clubman,  in 
opposition  to  the  hysterical  conduct  of  the  South  Ameri- 
can revolutionists  is  responsible  for  much  of  the  whole- 
some fun  which  pervades  Richard  Harding  Davis's 
farcical  play  The  Dictator. 

Contrast  in  the  Shakespearian  Drama. —  Shakespeare's 
plays  are  tilled  with  contrasted  individuals,  groups,  and 
situations.  A  few  examples  will  suffice.  In  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,  Shylock  the  Jew  is  contrasted  with 
Antonio  the  Gentile;  the  sprightliness  of  Launcelot 
with  the  infirmity  of  Gobbo.  In  Twelfth  Xight,  the 
feminine  timidity  with  which  Viola  faces  Sir  Andrew's 
sword  is  offset  by  the  masculine  force  with  which  Se- 
bastian repulses  Sir  Andrew.  In  Julius  Ccesar,  the 
calm,  dispassionate,  clear-cut  oration  of  Brutus  to  the 


COXTRAST  A.\D  CUXFLICT  71 

Roman  people  is  followed  by  the  sagacious,  insinuating 
address  of  Antony. 

Contrast  by  the  Introduction  of  Verse,  Song,  or 
Melody. —  The  playwright  frequently  secures  a  pleasing 
contrast  by  the  introduction  of  some  well-known  poem, 
song,  or  melody,  wliich,  if  relevant  to  the  plot,  serves 
the  double  purpose  of  graceful  explanation  and  popular 
appeal.  This  is  especially  true  of  the  Bret  Harte  verses 
which  are  introduced  with  such  telHng  effect  by  Augustus 
Thomas  in  The  Witching  Hour. 

Dramatic  Conflict. —  Conflict  is  still  another  important 
attribute  of  a  successful  play.  We  find  it  exemplified 
crudely  in  the  physical  contest  of  the  hero  and  villain 
of  the  sensational  melodrama;  picturesquely,  in  the 
stage  duel  of  the  so-called  romantic  drama;  with  psychic 
appeal,  in  plays  Kke  The  Witching  Hour;  and  subtly, 
in  the  clash  of  wits  which  characterizes  such  comedies 
as  Lady  Frederick. 

The  play  is  very  Hke  a  game  after  all,  and  much  of  the 
enjoyment  we  derive  from  witnessing  a  dramatic  per- 
formance Hes  in  the  fact  that  we  sympathize  with  the 
hero  and  heroine  who  are  striving  to  attain  happiness. 
We  make  their  contest  our  own,  applauding  their  tri- 
umphs when  they  succeed,  or  weeping  furtively  when  the 
"game"  goes  against  them. 

The  "Journalistic  Drama." —  This  suggests  the  indis- 
putable fact  that  the  successful  dramatist  always  under- 


72  KCOM)MV  AND  RETENTION  OF  INTEREST 

stands  the  psychology  of  his  audience.  The  vogue  of 
that  class  of  plays  which  Montrose  J.  Moses  terms  "sheer 
journalism"  is  by  no  means  accidental.  The  magazines 
and  daily  papers  exploit  the  themes  which  catch  the 
fancy  of  the  people,  and  the  play-builder  is  astute  who 
caters  to  a  taste  already  developed  and  fostered  by 
journalistic  literature.  As  proof  of  this  assertion,  wit- 
ness the  popularity  of  the  drama  of  "high  finance,"  of 
which  Charles  Klein's  77/e  Lion  and  the  Mouse  and 
The  Gamblers  are  conspicuous  examples. 

Ibsen  and  the  Newspapers.  -  It  has  been  said  of 
Ibsen  that  he  "drew  from  newspapers  most  of  the  raw 
material  for  his  incomparable  dramas,"  that  "newspapers 
gave  him  much  of  his  knowledge  of  human  nature  and 
of  the  world,"  that  "he  would  spend  hours  in  reading 
them  from  beginning  to  end,"  and  that  "he  accumulated 
thousands  of  clippings  on  all  imaginable  phases  of  life.' 

The  Importance  of  the  Opening  Scene. —  An  eminent 
educator  was  wont  to  declare  that  the  public  speaker 
who  wishes  the  immediate  attention  of  his  hearers  can 
best  secure  it  by  stating  his  fundamental  proposition 
at  the  outset  in  startling  terms.  This  rule  is  equally 
applicable  to  the  playwright,  who  should  never  forget 
that  the  setting  and  opening  of  his  first  act  are  all  im- 
portant. 

Clyde  Fitch  recognized  this  necessity,  and  was  especi- 
ally adept  in  selecting  for  his  first  scene  both  a  setting 
and  a  situation  of  unusual  interest.     The  school-room 


Kas^atTivj*  HCK.v:?* 


TREATMENT  OF  THE  THEME  75 

scene  in  Nathan  Hale,  the  nursery  scene  in  Her  Own 
Way,  and  the  lodging-room  scene  in  Girls  are  apt  il- 
lustrations. 

The  Audience  Must  Share  the  Secret. —  It  is  also  to  be 
borne  in  mind  in  the  treatment  of  a  given  theme  that 
playgoers  resent  all  attempts  to  mystify  them.  The 
novelist  may  reserve  a  surprise  to  the  last,  but  the  play- 
wright must  permit  his  audience  a  glimpse  of  the  real 
situation.  This  fact  is  set  forth  convincingly  by  Pro- 
fessor Matthews  in  his  interesting  and  valuable  work  A 
Study  of  tJie  Drama.  It  is  also  referred  to  by  Esen- 
wein  in  his  analysis  of  The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief 
by  O.  Henry  (Studying  the  Short-Story)"^  when  he  calls 
attention  to  "the  stage  trick  of  a  character  in  ignorance 
while  the  audience  enjoys  his  delusion." 

A  Picture  Play. —  The  distinction  between  the  dra- 
matic and  novelistic  treatment  is  happily  illustrated  by  a 
little  moving-picture  drama  which  was  popular  a  few 
years  ago. 

A  child  is  represented  as  imprisoned  beneath  a  large 
bandbox,  which  has  accidentally  fallen  from  a  table  near 
which  the  child  has  been  playing.  The  parents  search 
in  vain  for  the  child.  Gypsies  have  been  in  the  vicinity, 
and  they  are  suspected  of  having  had  a  hand  in  the  disap- 
pearance. A  spirited  race  to  overtake  the  gypsies  en- 
sues. There  are  all  sorts  of  complications.  But  at 
intervals  throughout  the  portrayal  of  the  parents'  fren- 
zied hunt,  the  scene  is  shifted  back  to  the  home,  where 

*Hinds  Noble  &  Eldredge.  New  York.  $1.25. 


76  ECOXOMY  AXD  RETENTION  OF  INTEREST 

the  spectators  are  shown  the  bandbox  rocked  to  and 
fro  by  the  Kttle  prisoner's  endeavors  to  extricate  him- 
self. 

Finally,  the  child  becomes  exhausted,  and  desists 
momentarily  from  his  efforts.  The  parents  return  in 
despair.  The  father  sits  with  bowed  head  and  downcast 
eyes,  when  suddenly  he  notices  that  the  overturned  band- 
box is  actually  moving.  At  first,  he  is  terrified,  but  soon 
regains  his  courage,  and  Hfting  the  box  from  the  floor, 
discloses  to  view  the  long  lost  child. 

The  story  writer  might  have  withheld  from  his  readers 
all  knowledge  of  the  child's  whereabouts,  and  made  them 
parties  in  the  father's  discovery.  Not  so  with  the  drama- 
tist: he  must  allow  his  audience  to  share  the  secret,  to 
participate  in  the  game.  The  appeal  of  this  Httle  kin- 
etoscopic  drama  lay  in  creating  a  suspense  on  the  part 
of  the  spectators,  who  were  all  eagerly  waiting  to  see 
when  and  how  the  parents  would  find  out  what  they 
fthe  spectators)  already  knew.  There  is  a  better  reason 
than  is  sometimes  imagined  for  calling  a  dramatic  per- 
formance a  "play." 

The  Importance  of  Action. —  The  efficient  playwright 
never  permits  himself  to  disregard  the  axiom  that  in  the 
drama  action  is  indispensable.  By  action  is  meant  energy 
exhibited  in  outward  motion  as  opposed  to  the  mere 
recitation  of  dialogue.  While  it  is  true  that  dramatists 
like  Ibsen  have  been  able  to  imbue  commonplace  con- 
versation with  life,  yet  an  examination  of  their  works 
will  reveal  the  fact  that  words  are  usually  incident  to 


THE  DRAMATIC  TEST  77 

deeds,  and  though  the  action  may  be  temporarily  sub- 
merged, it  springs  to  the  surface  in  chmactic  moments 
with  a  force  and  intensity  which  is  all  the  more  signifi- 
cant because  of  the  contrast. 

To  test  a  given  play,  let  the  student  ask  this  question: 
Could  the  story  be  adequately  told  by  a  series  of  moving 
pictures?  If  the  answer  is  no,  then  he  may  rest  assured 
that  the  work  is  not  a  drama  in  any  real  or  vital  sense. 

A  Note  of  Caution. —  The  foregoing  pages  have  dealt 
with  the  drama  on  its  structural  side  exclusively.  At 
this  point  a  word  of  caution  seems  advisable.  Canons 
of  art  and  rules  of  construction  are  vastly  important  as 
means  to  an  end:  they  are  never  an  end  in  themselves. 
To  become  a  vital  thing  the  skeleton  of  dramatic  form 
should  be  invested  with  the  flesh  and  blood  of  substance. 
The  play  that  lives  must  be  endowed  with  heart  and 
mind  and  soul. 

And  just  as  in  human  life  there  is  a  beauty  of  spirit 
which  transcends  mere  physical  attractiveness,  so  in  the 
realm  of  art  a  message  is  sometimes  spoken  which  in 
the  form  of  its  utterance  violates  prescribed  laws,  and  at 
the  same  time  possesses  a  splendor  all  its  own,  a  grandeur 
that  defies  analysis.  If  a  play  grips  us,  if  it  teaches  a 
great  truth  impressively,  if  it  stirs  our  emotions,  if  it 
incites  us  to  laughter,  or  moves  us  to  tears,  it  has  perhaps 
fulfilled  its  dramatic  mission  even  though  its  technique 
may  fall  far  short  of  accepted  standards. 

The  theatre  is  literally  a  "playhouse,"  and  it  is  a  duty 
we  owe  not  only  to  ourselves  but  to  dramatist  and  actors 


78  ECONOMY  AND  RETENTION  OF  INTEREST 

to  enter  it  not  with  a  critical,  fault-finding  spirit,  but 
with  something  of  the  imagination  and  receptivity  of 
childhood.  Knowledge  of  dramatic  mechanism  ought 
not  to  mar  our  enjoyment,  nor  dim  the  theatrical  illus- 
ion, provided  we  are  careful  always  to  remember  that 
the  drama  could  never  have  become  the  vital,  growing 
force  it  is  to-day  were  the  rules  of  its  construction  rigid 
and  inelastic.  The  finest  imagination  is  that  which  is 
controlled  by  intelHgence,  and  the  playgoer  who  is 
tempted  to  overestimate  the  importance  of  conformity 
to  artistic  law  will  find  it  salutary  to  recall  the  fact  that 
Shakespeare  scorned  to  be  a  slave  to  classical  tradition, 
and  that  Wagner  in  the  composition  of  his  great  music- 
dramas  discarded  the  shackles  of  conventionality. 

Summary. —  The  attention  of  the  audience  can  rarely 
be  retained  without  a  strict  observance  of  dramatic 
economy.  Contrast  and  conflict  are  potent  methods  of 
securing  interest;  the  choice  of  the  theme  is  important, 
and  in  its  treatment  the  sagacious  playwright  recognizes 
the  fact  that  playgoers  delight  to  participate  in  the 
game  and  to  share  the  dramatic  secret. 

Succeeding  Chapters. —  A  diagram  embodying  the 
principles  enumerated  in  the  preceding  pages  comprises 
the  chapter  which  follows,  and  in  order  to  illustrate 
the  method  of  analysis  under  this  diagram,  four  plays 
have  been  selected  for  examination  —  Shakespeare's  As 
You  Like  It  and  Othello,  Ibsen's  A  Doll's  House,  and 
Maeterlinck's  Mary  Magdalene. 


niiKr^'ii^iiis;  ]r38t>?K>>* 


AN 

ANALYTICAL  DIAGRAM 


CHAPTER  VI 
AN  ANALYTICAL  DIAGRAM 

I.     UNITIES. 

1.  Time. 

(a)  Explanation  of  prior  occurrences. 

2.  Place. 

3.  Action. 

II.     PLOT. 

1.  Source. 

(a)  Original. 

(b)  Borrowed. 

2.  Form. 

(a)  Simple. 

(b)  Complex. 

3.  Development. 

(a)  Arch-like. 

(b)  Catastrophic. 

III.     DETAILED  TREATMENT. 

A.  Methods  of  securing  naturalness. 

1.  Vehicle  of  expression. 

(a)  Prose. 

(b)  Verse. 

(c)  Dialect. 

2.  Soliloquies  and  "asides." 

(a)  Absence  of 

(b)  Presence  of 

3.  Natural  introduction  of  emotional  stimuli. 

(a)  Light. 

(b)  Music. 

83 


84  AN  ANALYTICAL  DIAGRAM 

(c)  Tumuli. 

(d)  Noise. 

(e)  Natural  phenomena. 

4.  Humanizing  process. 

(a)  Personal  qualities  of  characters. 

(b)  Circumstances. 

5.  Anticipation. 

(a)  Of  incredulous  events. 

(b)  Of  use  of  implements  or  objects . . 
B.     Methods  of  securing  interest  of  audience. 

1.  Economy. 

(a)  In  the  introduction  of  characters. 

(b)  In  the  use  of  objects. 

(c)  In  the  marshalling  of  events. 

2.  Contrast. 

(a)  In  the  grouping  of  characters  and  events. 

(b)  In  the  vehicle  of  expression. 

3.  Conflict. 

(a)  Mental. 

(b)  Physical. 

4.  Appeal  to  popular  taste. 

(a)  In  the  choice  of  the  theme. 

(b)  In  the  treatment  of  the  theme. 


KU^'^Vir^*    IIBf>4>T31 


ANALYSIS  OF 

"AS  YOU  LIKE  IT" 


CHAPTER  VII 

ANALYSIS*  OF  "AS  YOU  LIKE  IT" 

In  this  chapter  and  in  the  three  which  succeed  it,  the 
topics  are  numbered  and  lettered  with  reference  to  the 
DIAGRAM  on  pages  41-42. 

I. —  UNITIES 

1.  The  play  does  not  conform  to  the  unity  of  time, 
(a)  The  first  scene  is,  in  the  main,  devoted  to  an 

explanation  of  events  which  have  occurred  prior  to  the 
action  of  the  play. 

2.  Sixteen  of  the  twenty-two  scenes  are  laid  in  the 
forest  of  Arden,  and  the  remaining  scenes  are  located 
either  at  Oliver's  house  or  Duke  Frederick's  palace. 

3.  Unity  of  action  is  not  strictly  observed.  Never- 
theless there  is  perfect  unity  of  tone  and  feeling. 

II. —  PLOT 

I.  (b)  It  has  been  suggested  that  the  plot  of  As 
You  Like  It  was  derived  from  two  sources  —  Rosa- 
lynd:  Euplmes'  Golden  Legacy,  a  novel  by  Thomas 
Lodge,  and  Tlie  Cook^s  Tale  of  Gamely n,  supposed  at 
one  time  to  have  been  written  by  Chaucer,  but  not  now 
included    in   his   works.      Since,    however,   TJic  Cook's 

*  Based  on  "An  Analytical  Diagram" 


90  ANALYSIS  OF  'M5  106'  LIKE  IT" 

Talc    of   Gamely n    was    not    printed  in  Shakespeare's 
lifetime,  his  famiharity  with  it  has  been  doubted. 

2.  (b)  The  plot  is  complex,  comprising  four  love  epi- 
sodes besides  the  contest  between  the  Dukes  and  that 
between  Oliver  and  Orlando. 

3.  (a)  The  arch-like  method  of  plot  development 
is  employed,  the  pivotal  point  being  in  the  centre  of  the 
play  (Act  III,  Scene  II)  when  Orlando  meets  Rosalind 
in  disguise. 

in. —  DETAILED    TREATMENT 

A. —  Methods  of  Securing  Naturalness. 

1.  (a)  Prose  and  (b)  blank  verse  are  commingled, 
the  larger  portion  of  the  play  being  in  prose. 

2.  (b)  The  soliloquies  are  few  and  short.  In  Act  III, 
Scene  III,  there  are  a  few  "asides." 

3.  (b)  Vocal  music  is  introduced  naturally  as  the  spon- 
taneous expression  of  the  characters. 

(c)  The  shouting  incidental  to  the  wrestling  match 
is  a  natural  means  of  introducing  emotional  stimulus. 

4  (a)  We  find  a  humanizing  touch  in  Duke  Frederick's 
love  for  CeUa.  All  the  characters,  especially  Oliver, 
become  more  sympathetic  when  brought  in  contact 
with  the  magic  of  the  forest. 

(b)  That  Rosalind  should  not  attempt  sooner  to 
reveal  her  identity  to  her  father  is  unfihal.  In  order  to 
make  her  remissness  pardonable,  the  love  affair  which 
detains  her  should  be  of  unusual  piquancy  and  charm; 
and  in  the  game  she  plays  with  Orlando  we  have  just 
the  sort  of  situation  to  capture  our  sympathies  and  make 
us  exceedinglv  lenient  toward  her  faults. 


2»ix55i.BOTiH::E.sir.!i:?«>-(i  •hi 


ANALYSIS  OF  "AS  YOU  LIKE  IT"  93 

5.  (a)  The  masquerade  of  Rosalind  is  frankly  antici- 
pated at  the  close  of  Act  I. 

B. —  Methods  of  Securing  Interest  of  Audience. 

I.  (a)  The  banished  Duke  is  the  magnet  which  draws 
all  characters,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  the  forest. 
Rosalind  goes  there  to  seek  him,  and  Celia  and  Touch- 
stone accompany  her.  Orlando,  seeking  food  for  Adam, 
interrupts  the  feast  of  the  Duke  and  his  followers,  and 
after  revealing  his  identity,  remains  as  a  welcome  guest. 
Rosalind's  interest  in  ''the  wrestler"  arouses  Frederick's 
suspicion  that  Rosalind  and  Celia  have  fled  with  Orlando. 
He  therefore  commands  Oliver  to  seek  his  brother  and 
' '  bring  him  dead  or  h ving. ' '  OH ver  is  rescued  from  death 
by  Orlando  in  the  forest,  and  brought  by  him  to  the 
banished  Duke.  He  is  then  sent  with  a  message  to 
Ganymede  from  the  wounded  Orlando,  and  meeting 
Celia,  falls  in  love  with  her.  Frederick  makes  ready  an 
expedition  against  the  banished  Duke,  but  after  reach- 
ing the  "skirts"  of  the  wood,  is  "converted  both  from  his 
enterprise  and  from  the  world,"  the  tidings  being  brought 
to  the  Duke  by  Jaques  de  Boys. 

(b)  The  papers  containing  verses  which  Orlando 
hangs  upon  the  trees  are  an  economical  as  well  as  an 
artistic  means  of  acquainting  Ganymede  with  the  fact 
that  Orlando  loves  Rosalind.  The  chain  which  Rosa- 
lind presents  to  Orlando  in  Act  I  affords  an  opportunity 
for  Celia  to  tell  Rosalind  of  Orlando's  presence  in  the 
forest  in  a  dramatic  manner. 

(c)  Out  of  the  wrestling  match  much  of  the  subse- 


94  ANALYSIS  OF  "AS  YOU  LIKE  IT' 

quent  action  is  naturally  evolved.  Orlando's  victory- 
enrages  Oliver  and  makes  necessary  Orlando's  flight;  it 
awakens  Rosalind's  interest  in  ''the  wrestler,"  and  her 
interest  leads  Frederick  to  suspect  that  Orlando  has  had 
a  hand  in  the  disappearance  of  Celia  and  Rosalind. 
Similarly,  the  unmasking  of  Rosalind  restores  to  the 
banished  Duke  his  daughter,  and  gives  Phebe  a  husband 
and  Orlando  a  wife. 

2.  (a)  The  play  abounds  in  happy  contrasts.  The 
characters  are  exceedingly  varied:  Duke,  jester,  wrestler, 
vicar,  shepherds,  courtiers,  country  people,  pages,  forest- 
ers, etc.  The  complexity  of  court  life  is  placed  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  simple  life  of  the  forest.  Three  types  of  humor 
are  contrasted,  designated  by  Professor  Moulton  as  "  the 
healthy  humor  of  Rosalind,  the  professional  humor  of 
Touchstone,  and  the  morbid  humor  of  Jaques."  Rosa- 
hnd  and  Orlando,  Touchstone  and  Audry,  Silvius  and 
Phebe,  Oliver  and  Celia,  are  contrasted  both  as  types  of 
lovers  and  in  the  methods  of  their  wooing. 

(b)  Prose,  verse,  and  song  are  blended  and  con- 
trasted in  the  most  delightful  fashion. 

3.  (a)  There  is  a  conflict  between  the  Dukes,  and 
between  Orlando  and  Oliver.  Rosalind  during  her  mas- 
querade is  playing  a  game;  and  Jaques  and  Touch- 
stone welcome  every  opportunity  to  match  wits  with 
any  and  all  comers. 

(b)  In  the  first  scene,  Orlando  lays  hands  upon 
Oliver,  In  the  wrestling  match  there  is  actual  physical 
conflict,  which  has  structural  significance  from  the  fact 
that  Charles  is  the  representative  of  Oliver  in  the  struggle. 


ANALYSIS  OF  "AS  VOU  LIKE  IT'  95 

In  Act  II,  Scene  VII,  Orlando  demands  food  at  the 
point  of  the  sword. 

4.  (a)  All  the  world  loves  a  fairy  tale,  and  As  You 
Like  It,  with  its  magical  forest  peopled  with  impossible 
lions  and  conventional  shepherds,  with  its  atmosphere  of 
j)layfulness  and  its  extravagantly  happy  ending,  is  just 
the  sort  of  play  to  appeal  to  popular  taste  in  all  ages. 

(b)  The  audience  shares  the  secret  of  Rosalind's 
disguise,  and  enters  heartily  into  the  game  with  her. 


ANALYSIS  OF 
•'OTHELLO" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ANALYSIS*  OF  "OTHELLO" 

I. —  UNITIES 

1.  Unity  of  time  is  disregarded. 

(a)  The  first  act  partaking  somewhat  of  the  nature  of 
a  prologue,  there  are  few  prior  events  which  it  is  neces- 
sary to  relate.  Cassio's  preferment,  Roderigo's  interest 
in  Desdemona,  and  the  elopement  of  Desdemona  and 
Othello  are  explained  briefly  in  the  first  scene.  The 
wooing  of  Desdemona  is  described  by  Othello  himself 
in  his  speech  to  the  Duke  and  Senators  in  the  third  scene. 

2.  The  first  act  is  laid  in  Venice;  all  the  others,  at  a 
seaport  in  Cyprus. 

3.  The  essential  elements  of  unity  of  action  are 
observed. 

II. —  PLOT 

1.  (b)  The  plot  is  adapted  from  a  story  by  Giraldi 
Cinthio,  an  Italian  novelist.  It  is  a  "meagre  tale,"  and 
none  of  the  characters  in  the  story,  except  Desdemona, 
are  given  names. 

2.  (a)  Though  combining  several  intrigues,  the  plot 
is  relatively  simple. 

3.  (a)  The  plot  is  manipulated  on  the  regular  "rise 
and  fall"  principle.     The  descent  begins  in  the  third 

*Based  on  "An  Analytical  Diagram,"  page  41. 

99 


({,A^ 


loo  ANALVSi:^  OF  "OTHELLO" 

scene  of  the  central  act  when  Othello  commences  to 
credit  lago's  insinuations  regarding  the  infidelity  of 
Desdemona. 

III. —  DETAILED  TREATMENT 

A. —  Methods  of  Securing  Naturalness. 

1.  (a)  Prose  is  employed  in  several  instances,  but 
(b)  blank  verse  and  rhyme  predominate. 

2.  (b)  lago  indulges  in  several  long  soliloquies  which 
acquaint  the  audience  with  the  malignity  of  his  purposes. 
There  are  also  various  other  soliloquies,  as  well  as 
"asides". 

3.  (a)  There  are  several  night  scenes  with  faint  light 
or  flickering  torches  to  give  naturally  a  background  of 
weird  or  sombre  color  to  the  tragedy. 

(b)  The  song  of  lago  in  the  third  scene  of  the  second 
act,  the  playing  of  the  musicians  at  the  opening  of  Act 
III,  and  the  song  of  Desdemona  in  the  last  scene  of  Act 
IV  are  examples  of  the  natural  introduction  of  music. 

Various  trumpet  calls  announcing  the  arrival  of  char- 
acters help  to  create  a  military  atmosphere. 

(c)  Tumult  and  (d)  noise  are  naturally  introduced 
by  the  shouting  and  the  guns  preceding  Othello's  en- 
trance in  Act  II. 

4.  (a)  lago  possesses  soldierly  qualities,  and  is  intel- 
lectually strong. 

The  simplicity  of  Othello's  nature  makes  us  more  will- 
ing to  forgive  his  gullibility. 

The  weakness  of  Cassio's  character  as  revealed  in  the 
scene  of  his  intoxication  helps  to  explain  his  willingness 
to  have  Desdemona  intercede  for  him. 


ANALYSIS  OF  "OTHELLO"  loi 

(b)  lago's  conduct  seems  a  trifle  more  human  when 
we  learn  that  Othello  has  refused  to  make  him  his  lieu- 
tenant, and  that  he  suspects  the  Moor  has  had  a  liaison 
with  his  wife. 

Desdemona's  interest  in  Othello  appears  much  less 
abnormal  after  the  Moor  has  made  his  defence  to  the 
Duke  and  Senators.  The  further  fact  that  none  of  the 
other  characters  in  the  play  are  at  all  worthy  of  her  con- 
tributes to  the  same  end. 

5.  (a)  The  preparation  for  lago's  intrigue  against 
Othello  begins  as  early  as  the  seventh  line  of  the  play, 
when  Roderigo  says  to  lago : 

''Thou  tolds't  me  thou  didst  hold  him  in  thy  hate." 

Othello's  belief  in  Desdemona's  faithlessness  is  antici- 
pated when  Brabantio  speaks  his  parting  words  near 
the  close  of  Act  I: 

"Look  to  her  Moor,  if  thou  hast  eyes  to  see; 
She  has  deceiv'd  her  father,  and  may  thee." 

The  jealousy  of  Othello  will  appear  more  probable 
if  the  man  of  action  is  placed  where  there  is  nothing  to 
prevent  his  brooding  over  the  first  crafty  suggestion  of 
lago.  He  is  therefore  sent  on  the  expedition  to  Cyprus, 
and  the  sudden  wreck  of  the  Turkish  fleet  leaves  him 
there  without  martial  occupation.  Domestic  tragedy 
is  thus  anticipated. 

Desdemona's  death  is  foreshadowed  by  her  song  in 
the  last  scene  of  Act  IV. 


I02  ANALYSIS  OF  "OTHELLO" 

The  soliloquies  of  lago  prepare  the  audience  for  much 
of  the  succeeding  action. 

(b)  The  handkerchief  is  introduced  in  a  natural 
manner  by  Desdemona  when  she  wishes  to  bind  Othello's 
forehead  in  the  third  scene  of  Act  III. 

B. —  Methods  of  Securing  Interest  of  Audience. 

I.  (a)  Cassio  is  the  instrument  by  which  lago  effects 
his  designs.  The  quarrel  of  Cassio  in  the  third  scene 
of  the  second  act  leads  to  the  loss  of  his  office,  and  Des- 
demona's  entreaties  in  his  behalf  help  to  confirm  Othello's 
suspicions  of  her  infidehty.  Cassio's  relations  with 
Bianca  still  further  confirm  these  suspicions  by  affording 
a  natural  means  of  exhibiting  the  handkerchief  to  Othello, 
and  by  furnishing  a  topic  of  conversation  (Act  IV,  Scene 
I)  which  Othello  misinterprets  as  referring  to  Desdemona. 

(b)  The  handkerchief  not  only  strengthens  Othello 
in  his  unfounded  belief  in  Desdemona's  perfidy,  but  con- 
nects Bianca  with  the  other  characters,  and  is  responsi- 
ble for  the  ironical  situation  in  the  fourth  scene  of  Act 
III,  when  Desdemona  insists  that  the  Moor's  interest  in 
the  loss  of  the  handkerchief  is  but  a  trick  to  keep  her 
from  pleading  Cassio's  cause. 

(c)  The  advancement  of  Cassio  to  the  lieutenancy 
arouses  lago's  jealousy,  and  it  is  lago's  machinations 
that  direct  the  trend  of  the  plot.  Being  thus  directed, 
the  plot  seems  less  hke  the  artificial  creation  of  the  play- 
wright. 

Othello's  defence  in  the  last  scene  of  the  first  act 
has   economic   value,  since   it  serves  to  relate  a  prior 


ANALYSIS  OF  "OTHELLO"  103 

occurrence,  makes  Desdemona's  love  for  the  Moor  seem 
more  probable,  and  bridges  over  the  time  that  must 
elapse  in  summoning  Desdemona. 

2. (a)  The  simplicity  of  Othello  is  contrasted  with  the 
craftiness  of  lago;  the  virtue  of  Desdemona  and  Emilia, 
with  the  wantonness  of  Bianca;  the  gentleness  of 
Desdemona,  with  the  martial  qualities  of  the  Moor. 
In  the  second  scene  of  Act  I,  the  rage  of  Brabantio  is 
met  with  the  calmness  of  Othello.  The  playfulness  of 
the  clown  at  the  opening  of  the  fourth  scene  in  Act  III 
is  succeeded  by  the  grim  seriousness  of  the  Moor.  The 
blunt  accusation  of  Othello  in  the  second  scene  of  Act 
IV  is  followed  by  the  refined  delicacy  of  Desdemona's 
question  to  lago,  when  she  is  unwilling  to  speak  the  name 
the  Moor  has  applied  to  her. 

(b)  Rhyme,   blank  verse,   and  song  are  mingled. 

3.  (a)  There  is  the  struggle  of  lago  to  compass  his 
evil  designs;  the  struggle  of  Cassio  to  regain  his  office, 
and  the  ironical  struggle  of  Desdemona  to  regain  it  for 
him;  the  struggle  of  Bianca  to  retain  Cassio's  afTection; 
the  inward  conflict  of  Othello  with  his  suspicions  of 
Desdemona,  and  his  outward  struggle  to  prove  her  guilt; 
the  short  conflict  of  lago  with  Emilia  near  the  close  of 
the  play;  and  the  pursuit  of  Desdemona  by  Roderigo. 

(b)  There  is  physical  conflict  between  the  followers 
of  Othello  and  those  of  Brabantio,  Act  I,  Scene  II;  the 
quarrels  of  Cassio,  Act  II,  Scene  III,  and  Act  V,  Scene  I; 
the  physical  violence  of  Desdemona's  death,  and  the 
suicide  of  Othello. 

4.  (a)  The  marriage  of  the  Moor  and  Desdemona  is 


I04  ANALYSIS  OF  "OT HELLO" 

in  itself  sufficiently  startling  to  attract  the  attention 
of  the  audience  at  once. 

(b)  No  effort  is  spared  to  give  the  audience  full 
knowledge  of  lago's  villainy.  The  interest  of  the 
audience  is  sustained  by  watching  the  ensnarement  of 
Othello,  and  wondering  when  and  how  he  will  dis- 
cover the  true  character  of  lago. 

The  first  act  opens  strikingly  with    the   abrupt  an- 
nouncement to  Brabantio  of  his  daughter's  elopement. 


jfc:ii>  w  iiiv  >-4;)2^i-iKHT 


ANALYSIS  OF 

"A  DOLL'S  HOUSE" 


CHAPTER  IX 
ANALYSIS*  OF  "A  DOLL'S  HOUSE" 

I. —  UNITIES 

1.  The  action  takes  place  on  three  consecutive  days, 
(a)  The  dialogue  of  Mrs.  Linden  and  Nora,  and  Krog- 

stad  and  Nora,  in  Act  I,  familiarizes  the  audience  with 
what  has  transpired  before  the  action  of  the  play. 

2.  Unity  of  place  is  strictly  observed. 

3.  The  play  conforms  to  the  unity  of  action  sufficiently, 
although  the  character  of  Dr.  Rank  contributes  little 
to  the  advancement  of  the  plot. 

II. —  PLOT 

I.  (a)  The  plot  is  original  and  (2a)  simple. 

3.  (b)  The  catastrophic  method  of  plot  development 
is  employed.  ''Nothing  can  involve  Nora  in  deeper 
embarrassment  than  what  has  already  happened"  when 
the  curtain  rises. 

III.  — DETAILED  TREATMENT 

A. —  Methods  of  Securing  Naturalness. 

1.  (a)  Prose  is  the  vehicle  of  expression. 

2.  (b)  There  are  several  speeches  which  are  not  ad- 
dressed to  any  of  the  characters. 

"Based  on  "An  Analytical  Diagram,"  page  41. 

109 


no  ANALV:!ii:i  OF  "A  DOLL'S  HOUSE" 

3.  (b)  The  music  of  the  piano  in  Act  II  is  naturally 
introduced.  The  dance  music  in  Act  III  is  heard  from 
outside,  and  is  the  natural  accompaniment  to  the  dance 
which  is  going  on  in  the  room  above. 

(c)  The  shouting  and  merriment  of  the  children  in 
the  game  with  Nora  serve  to  heighten  the  dramatic 
effect  and  throw  light  on  Nora's  character. 

(d)  The  reverberation  of  the  door  closing  at  the 
end  of  the  play  is  an  effective  method  of  expressing 
the  force  and  irrevocability  of  Nora's  decision. 

4.  (a)  In  all  the  principal  characters  virtues  and 
faults  are  commingled. 

(b)  Nora's  desertion  of  her  husband  and  children  to 
be  received  sympathetically  must  appear  to  be  justified 
by  some  circumstance  other  than  her  desire  to  "educate" 
herself.  This  is  found  in  the  conduct  of  Torvald  toward 
Nora's  forgery. 

5.  (a)  Nora's  indebtedness  is  anticipated  early  in  Act 
I  by  the  reference  to  her  need  of  money  in  her  dialogue 
with  Torvald.  Nora's  abandonment  of  her  children  is 
anticipated  at  the  beginning  of  Act  II  in  the  dialogue 
between  Nora  and  Anna. 

(b)  The  domino  which  Nora  throws  round  her  in 
Act  III  is  brought  naturally  into  the  scene  by  Torvald 
when  he  returns  with  Nora  from  the  dance. 

B. —  Methods  of  Securing  Interest  of  Audience. 

I.  (a)  Dramatic  economy  is  exemplified  in  the  char- 
acters of  Mrs.  Linden  and  Krogstad.  Mrs.  Linden 
wishes  to  secure  Krogstad's  position,  and  Krogstad's 


ANALYSIS  OF  "A  DOLL'S  HOUSE"  iii 

desire  to  retain  his  position  precipitates  the  trouble 
between  Nora  and  Torvald.  The  reconciliation  of  Mrs. 
Linden  and  Krogstad  brings  about  the  return  of  the 
promissory  note,  and  that  in  turn  reveals  Helmer's  char- 
acter in  such  a  light  that  Nora  feels  impelled  to  leave  him. 

(b)  The  Christmas-tree,  besides  serving  its  purpose 
in  the  action  of  the  play,  is  also  a  symbol  of  Nora's  life. 
The  macaroons  throw  light  upon  both  the  character  of 
Nora  and  that  of  Torvald. 

(c)  Helmer's  new  position  gives  impetus  to  all  that 
follows.  While  it  seems  at  first  to  solve  Nora's  diffi- 
culties, yet  in  reahty  it  leads  directly  to  the  catastrophe 
by  forcing  Krogstad's  hand,  and  bringing  Mrs.  Linden 
into  the  action. 

2.  (a)  Nora's  assumed  gayety  stands  out  in  marked 
contrast  to  her  real  feelings.  The  character  types  are 
well  contrasted.  The  tarantella  is  a  bit  of  vivid  color 
in  somewhat  dull  surroundings  —  the  passion  of  the 
South  contrasted  with  the  frigidity  of  the  North. 

3.  (a)  There  is  the  outward  struggle  of  Nora  with 
Krogstad  and  Helmer,  and  the  inner  struggle  of  Nora 
with  her  own  nature.  There  is  the  struggle  of  Krogstad 
to  retain  his  position,  and  the  struggle  of  Dr.  Rank  with 
his  fatal  disease. 

4.  (a)  The  problem  of  woman's  development  is  al- 
ways a  popular  theme. 

(b)  The  play  opens  in  an  appealing  manner  with 
the  Christmas-tree  and  basket  of  presents,  the  conceal- 
ment of  the  macaroons,  and  the  romping  of  Nora  and 
the  children. 


ANALYSIS  OF 
''MARY  MAGDALENE" 


CHAPTER  X 

ANALYSIS*  OF  "MARY  MAGDALENE" 

I. —  UNITIES 

1.  Unity  of  time  is  not  observed. 

(a)  The  early  dialogue  of  Act  I  gives  us  glimpses 
of  the  past. 

2.  Unity  of  place  is  not  observed. 

3.  The  play  conforms  to  the  unity  of  action. 

II. —  PLOT 

1.  (b)  The  play  is  founded  on  the  story  of  the  Mag- 
dalene, and  Maeterlinck  acknowledges  his  indebtedness 
to  Heyse's  Maria  Von  Magdala  for  the  idea  of  two 
situations,  one  at  the  close  of  the  first  act  where  Christ 
''stops  the  crowd  raging  against  Mary  Magdalene  with 
these  words,  spoken  behind  the  scenes:  'He  that  is  with- 
out sin  among  you,  let  him  cast  the  first  stone';"  the 
other  in  the  third  act  where  Mary  has  it  in  her  power  to 
save  or  destroy  the  Master  "according  as  she  consents 
or  refuses  to  give  herself  to  a  Roman." 

2.  (a)  The  plot  is  simple. 

3.  (a)  The  pivotal  point  of  the  plot  is  to  be  found  near 
the  end  of  Act  II,  when  Lazarus  addresses  Mary  with 
the  words:  "Come.     The  Master  calls  you." 

*Based  on  "An  Analytical  Diagram,"  page  41. 

115 


Ii6  ylNALVSIS  OF  "MARY  MAGDALENE" 

III. —  DETAILED  TREATMENT 

A . — ■  Methods  of  Securing  Naturalness. 

1 .  (a)  Prose  is  the  vehicle  of  expression. 

2.  (a)  There  are  no  soHloquies  nor  "asides." 

3.  (a)  The  red  Hght  at  the  end  of  the  play  is  intro- 
duced naturally  by  the  glare  of  the  torches  from  without. 
In  preparation  for  this,  the  lamps  in  the  room  are  ex- 
tinguished naturally  at  the  suggestion  of  the  Cripple, 
who  fears  detection  by  the  mob. 

(b)  The  "sound  of  the  double  flute"  outside  an- 
nounces naturally  the  entrance  of  Mary  Magdalene. 

(c)  Tumult,  (d)  noise,  etc.,  are  introduced  naturally 
by  the  shouting  of  the  mob,  the  sound  of  arms,  horses,  etc. 

4.  (a)  The  Roman  characters  are  endowed  with  the 
usual  Stoic  virtues. 

(b)  The  conduct  of  Yerus,  contemptible  in  itself, 
seems  less  reprehensible  in  view  of  the  fact  that  he  is  a 
Roman,  and  as  yet  uninfluenced  by  the  teachings  of 
Christ. 

5.  (a)  The  attack  of  the  mob  upon  Mary  Magdalene 
at  the  end  of  Act  I  is  anticipated  by  Mary  herself,  who 
relates  how  she  had  been  previously  insulted  and  threat- 
ened with  stones;  and  also  by  Silanus  when  he  says: 
"You  know  the  Jewish  fanaticism.  ...  In  these 
moments  of  exaltation,  the  most  inoffensive  become 
dangerous;  and  the  sight  of  the  Roman  toga  and  arms 
enrages  them  strangely." 

B  —  Methods  of  Securing  Interest  of  Audience. 

I.  (a)  It  is  good   dramatic  economy  which  makes 


£=4U  "u  DBoafi:>ii.'\::^'iV 


ANALYSIS  OF  "AIARY  MAGDALENE"  119 

Verus,  the  Roman  soldier  and  lover  of  Mary  Magdalene, 
the  person  who  has  it  in  his  power  to  save  Christ. 

(c)  The  personality  of  Christ  is  the  motive  power 
which  seems  to  direct  Mary  Magdalene's  every  act. 

2.  (a)  The  character  types  are  of  great  diversity, 
especially  in  the  last  act.  A  sharp  parallel  is  drawn  be- 
tween Pagan  Philosophy  and  the  Religion  of  Christ;  the 
tumult  of  the  mob  is  contrasted  with  the  calm  dignity 
of  the  Saviour's  Voice;  the  rage  of  Verus  and  the  panic 
of  the  cripples,  with  the  quiet  decision  of  Mary  Mag- 
dalene. 

3.  (a)  There  is  the  struggle  between  Verus  and  Mary, 
and  the  inner  struggle  of  Mary  herself.  In  the  back- 
ground is  the  conflict  waged  against  Christ. 

(b)  At  the  close  of  Act  I  we  have  the  physical 
violence  of  the  mob,  which  ceases  at  the  sound  of  the 
Voice. 

4.  (a)  The  scriptural  theme,  with  its  familiar  char- 
acters and  scenes,  has  in  itself  an  appealing  power. 

(b)  The  lavish  setting  of  the  opening  scene,  the 
reference  to  the  Biblical  characters  near  at  hand,  to  the 
Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  etc.,  all  tend  to  capture 
the  attention  of  the  audience  at  once. 


"MISTRESS  MOLLY" 


CHAPTER  XI 

"MISTRESS  MOLLY" 
A  Play  With  Marginal  Annotations 

INTRODUCTORY 

In  further  exemplification  of  the  dramatic  principles 
already  enumerated,  the  author  has  written  the  little 
play  which  follows,  placing  analytical  annotations  in  the 
margin,  each  annotation  being  referred  by  number  to 
its  proper  place  in  the  diagram,  page  41.   %^^ 

The  author  has  made  use  of  this  play  not  because 
he  labors  under  the  delusion  that  it  is  of  exceptional 
merit,  but  because  he  has  endeavored,  within  the  small 
compass  of  a  single  act,  to  follow  most  of  the  rules 
herein  set  forth. 

For  the  particular  annotative  method  adopted  indebt- 
edness is  acknowledged  to  J.  Berg  Esenwein,  who  has 
utilized  this  system  in  the  analysis  of  the  stories  col- 
lected in  his  entertaining  and  instructive  work  Study- 
ing the  Short-Story* 

*Hinds  Noble  &*  Eldredge,  New  York,  $i.2S- 


123 


'MISTRESS  MOLLY" 


MISTRESS    IMOLLY 

A  Patriotic  Ploy  in  One  Act 

CHARACTERS 

Captain  Dorrington,  a  Brilish  officer. 
Joe  Fleming,  a  Colonial  scout. 
Corporal  Hawkins,  a  British  soldier. 
Molly  Temperton,  a  patriot. 
British  soldiers  and  American  youths. 


The  numbers  refer  to  the  DIAGRAM 
(pages  41-42.) 

III.  B.  4  (a) 
There   is  an  appeal   to   popular 
taste  in  the  choice  of  a  patri- 
otic theme. 


III.  B.  2  (a) 
The  characters  are  contrasted  as 
far  as  possible. 


Place  — A  fort  near  Lake  Champlain. 

Time  —  Spring  of    1775;    midnight  and 
early  dawn. 


I. 

The  unities  are  observed. 


Scene. —  Interior  of  a  fort.  The  walls  of 
the  scene  are  designed  to  represent 
rough  stone.  There  are  doors  in 
the  center  and  right  walls,  and  a 
grated  window,  -with  window  ledge, 
at  right  of  center  door.  A  table 
and  chairs  are  placed  at  left  of 
center,  and  on  the  table  is  a  large 

125 


II.    I  (b) 

The  plot  was  suggested   by  the 

capture  of  Fort  Ticonderoga. 


126 


"MISTRESS  MOLLY 


old-fasliioned  candelabrum  contain- 
iug  three  lighted  candles. 


At  rise  of  curtain,  captain  dorrington 
and  CORPORAL  hawkins  arc  dis- 
covered, seated  at  the  table.  The 
latter  is  laboriously  polishing  the 
buttons  of  a  British  uniform. 
British  soldiers  are  heard  singing 
lustily  outside. 


III.  A.  3  (b) 
Natural    introduction    of    vocal 


Captain  Dorrington.  Deuce  take  the 
luck!  One  dies  of  stagnation  here  in 
these  benighted  colonies.  Better  be 
buried  alive  than  garrisoned  in  a  ram- 
shackle old  fortress  in  the  heart  of  the 
wilderness.     What  say  you,  corporal? 

Corporal  Hawkins.  Hit  are  wery 
trying,  sir.  Social  diwersions  are  most 
hinfrequent  liin  Hamerica,  and  hour 
grandest  uniforms  'ave  no  hattractions 
for  these  'oydcnish  country  girls. 

Captain.  True;  yet  methinks  these 
selfsame  country  maids  would  serve 
right  royally  to  while  away  an  idle  hour. 
{Rises  and  yawns.)  Heigh-ho!  I'm 
weary  of  it  all.  Ten  shillings,  corporal, 
for  the  glimpse  of  a  pretty  girl  to-night! 

Corporal.  Taken,  sir!  'Ow  could  you 
find  a  'andsomer  girl  than  'er  as  brings 
us  produce  and  prowisions  from  hacross 
the  lake? 

Captain  (heartily).  Faith,  you  couldn't! 
Her  cheeks  are  pinker  than  the  apple 
blossoms  that  revel  in  her  gran'sir's  gar- 
den, her  eyes!  —  Ah,  corporal,  the  waters 
of  holy  lake  St.  Sacrament  itself  are 
not  so  pure  and  limpid!    Often  have 


III.  A.   I   (a) 
Prose  is  the  vehicle  of  expression, 
an     attempt     lieing     made     to 
adopt  the  conversational  style 
of  the  period. 


III.  A.   I   (c) 
The   Corporal  speaks  in  dialect. 


HI.  A.  s  (a) 
Anticipation  of  a  coming  dramatic 
event.         See    annotation   let- 
tered "W." 


^AIIS^'\ai    113]KlI3I»»']ni.A.5«I>X 


''MISTRESS  MOLLY" 


129 


I  watched  her  through  the  glass.  'Tis  a 
pretty  sight.  Right  sturdily  doth  she 
pull  an  oar  through  the  sea-green  billows 
of  old  Champlain,  and  straight  as  a  die 
doth  she  steer  her  little  craft  to  the  old 
red  farmhouse  on  the  eastern  shore.  She 
is  late  in  coming  to-night.  'Tis  well  nigh 
twelve  o'clock  already. 

Corporal.  She's  wery  cautious,  sir. 
'Twould  never  do  to  'ave  'er  neighbors 
learn  'ow  cleverly  she  keeps  a  British 
fort  suppHed  with  fowls  and  wegetables. 
She'll  come,  never  fear. 

Captain  (laughing).  Yes;  her  vener- 
able grandsire  is  far  too  penurious  to 
renounce  his  nightly  visit  to  a  hungry 
garrison.  (Sound  of  laughter  outside.) 
Hark!     What's  that? 

Corporal  (rising).  Hif  I  mistake  not, 
hit's  the  little  lady  now.  (Listening.) 
The  boys  are  wery  heager  to  see  'er  this 
hevening. 


I.  I  (a) 
This  and  the  next  few  speeches 
are    explanatory    of    prior    oc- 
currences. 


III.  A.  3  (d) 
Emotional  stimulus  of  noise  nat- 
urally introduced. 


(The  CAPT.\iN  seems  lost  in  thought/or  a 
moment.) 

Captain  (aside).  Heavens!  What  a 
temptation!  But  where's  the  harm?  As 
Hawkins  saj's  we  have  few  diversions. 
(Strikes  table.)  By  Jove,  I'll  do  it! 
(To  coRPOR.\L.)  Corporal,  when  the 
little  lady  has  sold  her  provisions,  kindly 
ask  her  to  step  this  way. 

Corporal  (with  surprise).  WTiat!  'Ere 
hinside  the  fort,  sir? 

Captain  (sharply).  Yes.  Why  not? 
One  must  be  amused,  and  the  little  coun- 
try girl  will  not  betray  us.  We  have 
been  careful  to  hide  the  true  state  of 
affairs  from  the  enemv,   and   our  weak- 


Ill.  A.  2  (b) 

'Asides"  are  used  with  greater 
freedom  owing  to  the  arti- 
ficial nature  of  the  romantic 
Colonial  play. 


HI.  A.  4  (b) 
A  humanizing  touch  —  the  tedium 
of  his  surroundings  induces  the 
Captain  to  pursue    a  question- 
able line  of   conduct. 


13° 


"  MISTRESS  MOLL Y" 


ness  is  not  suspected.  What  harm,  think 
you,  can  a  slip  of  a  girl  and  her  feeble 
grandfather  do  an  army  of  Great  Brit- 
ain? Cjo  —  bid  her  enter.  I  will  freshen 
up  a  bit  and  return  presently.  We  must 
don  our  gayest  attire,  corporal,  for  we 
entertain  to-night.     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

{Exil   CORPORAL,    C.) 

Captain.  Jove!  I  feel  as  elated  as  a 
school-boy.  The  little  maid  is  right 
comely.  Please  Heaven  that  she  hath  a 
merry  wit! 

{Exit    CAPTAIN,    R.) 

(Enter     corporal,     C,    folloiced    bv  ...     W-       ,.     , 

^  \  '  Anticipation  reiilizea. 

MOLLY   TEMPERTON.) 

Molly.  Say  it  again.  Corporal  Haw- 
kins. I  scarce  believe  such  goodly  for- 
tune mine.  The  great  captain  himself 
deigns  to  receive  me?  —  say  you  so? 

Corporal.  Yes,  miss;  hit's  the  cap- 
tain's hordors. 

Molly,  (speaking  out  door,  C.)  Step 
this  way,  gran'sir.  Captain  Dorrington 
himself  bids  us  enter. 

Corporal.  Pardon,  miss.  'E  did  not 
say  as  'ow  your  grandfather  was  to 
come. 

Molly  (innocently).  Oh,  but  I  cannot 
leave  him  alone  in  the  night  air.  This 
spring  weather  is  very  trying  to  grand- 
pa's rheumatism.  (Calling.)  Come  along, 
gran'sir,  come  along. 

Joe  Fleming  (outside).  Yes,  dearie, 
I'm  a-comin'. 

(Enter  joi;,  C.     He  is  disguised  as  an  old 

man  'with  long  ichite  li'ig  and  heard. 


"MISTRESS  MOLLY" 


131 


and    carries    a    large    market-basket 
and  cane.) 


Corporal  (aside).  'Eavens!  Hi'm  hin 
for  hit  now.  (To  molly.)  Be  seated, 
miss.     Hi'll  speak  to  the  captain. 

{Exit  CORPORAL,   R.) 

(joe  watches  the  corporal  stealthily  lilt 
he  disappears,  then  steps  briskly  to 
door,  C,  and  examines  it  critically.) 

Joe.  See,  Molly  —  it  locks  with  an 
iron  bar.  A  sweep  of  the  arm,  and  'tis 
open  —  so.  {Unbolts  door,  then  closes 
it;  points  to  window.)  In  yonder  grated 
window  may  be  placed  the  signal-light. 
(Indicating  candelabrum.)  This  candle- 
stick's the  very  thing.  Canst  find  a  way 
to  lift  it  to  the  window  ledge? 

Molly.  Ay,  trust  me  for  that!  The 
captain  himself  shall  give  the  signal. 
When  the  three  lights  twinkle  through 
the  window  bars,  make  ready;  and  when 
the  last  faint  candle  flickers  out,  strike 
for  liberty! 

Joe.  Bravo!  What  a  stanch  Httle  pat- 
riot you  are!  Faith,  I  half  suspect 
you  love  the  colonies  better  than  you 
love  Joe  Fleming.  I'm  green  with  jeal- 
ousy. Come  here  till  I  tell  thee  so. 
Plague  take  this  badge  of  decrepitude! 
(Removes  wig  and  beard.)  There  — 
dost  love  me  better  now? 

Molly  (tenderly).  I  love  thee  always, 
dear. 

Joe.  And  I  —  Oh,  Molly,  I  cannot 
let  you  stay  here  in  this  grim  old  fortress 


III.   A.   5  (b) 
Anticipation  of  the  use  to  which 
the     candlestick     is     later     to 
be    put.     See    annotation    let- 
tered "X". 


III.  B.  4  (b) 
The    audience    is    permitted    to 
share  the  secret  of  Joe's  dis- 
guise. 


132 


"MISTRESS  MOLLY 


to-night.     Think    of    the    dangers    that 
beset  thee!     These  soldiers  are  reckless 

and  unscrupulous 

Molly.  Hush,  dear!  The  chance  has 
come  —  let's  be  strong  enough  to  lake  it. 
Our  little  adventure,  begun  in  sport,  has 
paved  the  way  for  a  mighty  victory. 
The  hand  of  Fate  is  in  it.  Don't  worry, 
Joe.  These  men  will  be  like  puppets, 
and  I  shall  pull  the  strings.  {Sound 
of  steps  outside.)  Quick!  The  captain 
is  coming. 


III.  A.  4  (a) 
Joe's  reluctance  at  leaving  iMoUy 
—  a  humanizing  touch. 


III.   B    I  (c) 
The    "little    adventure"    is    the 
event    out    of    which    the   sub- 
sequent   action    is  evolved. 


(joe  resumes  his  disguise  quickly.) 
{Enter  CAPTAIN,  R.) 


Captain.  Ah,  my  little  fascinator, 
what  have  you  brought  me  to-night? 

Molly.  Alas,  sir,  my  basket  is  empty! 
Every  chicken  and  even  my  last  glass  of 
jelly  has  been  sold  to  your  ravenous  sol- 
diers. 

Captain.  But  surely  you  have  a  sweet 
smile  of  welcome  for  me,  or  perchance  a 
sweeter  kiss? 

Joe   {muttering).     The   scoundrel! 

{Recovers  himself  a)vd  coughs  violently.) 

Captain.  \A'hy,  grandpa,  your  bronchial 
tubes  are  grievously  affected.  Let  me 
prescribe  the  open  air  —  these  rough  old 
walls  are  damp  and  chilly.  {To  molly.) 
My  pretty,  suppose  you  persuade  grandpa 
to  ruminate  down  on  the  lake  side  for  an 
hour  or  so.  I  much  prefer  to  see  thee 
quite  alone. 

Molly    {curtsying).     I'm  at  thy  service, 


annotation   lettered   "Y' 


"MISTRESS  MOLLY"  133 

sir.     {To    JOE.)     Wait    for    me,    gran'- 

sir,  near  the  boat.     Captain  Dorrington 

desires  to  talk  with  me. 

Joe  {as  if  deaf).     Eh?     What  for?  ^^    ^      IH-  A   s  (a) 

■^  The  Captain  remembers     grand- 

MoUy.     Oh,  he  s  gomg  to  bargain  for  pa's"     deafness     later.  _    See 

to-morrow's  dinner.     {With  a  sly  wink.) 

You  know  how  cheaply  I  sell  provisions 

to  the  soldiers  here, 

Joe.  Yes,  I  know.  You're  a  good 
little  girl,  Molly.  {In  a  hoarse  whisper.) 
Make  the  price  a  dear  one.  Squeeze 
the  Britishers  dry.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  I'll 
wait  for  thee  down  by  the  landing. 

Molly.  Very  well.  I'll  meet  thee 
there. 

(£.v//  JOE,  C.  The  CAPTAIN  opens  the 
door  for  him,  and  bolls  it  after  he  has 
withdrawn.) 

Captain  {aside).  Deuce  take  me  if  the 
little  baggage  isn't  glad  to  be  rid  of  him. 
Methinks  she'll  prove  an  easy  conquest. 
{To  MOLLY.)  Make  yourself  at  home, 
my  dear.  'Tis  rare  indeed  that  Captain 
Dorrington  has  a  chance  to  play  the  host. 

Molly.     You  are  very  kind. 

Captain  {graciously).  Not  at  all. 
The  pleasure's  mine,  I'm  sure.  Not  every 
British  officer  can  boast  a  pretty  g'rl 
to  cheer  his  solitude. 

Molly  {coqueltishly).  No;  nor  every 
country  maid  the  acquaintance  of  a 
British  officer. 

Captain  {boisterously).  Well  put,  egad! 
You're  luckier,  I  trow,  than  half  your 
tomboy  companions.  Tell  me,  my  dear, 
what  the  j^oung  people  of  your  neighbor- 
hood do  to  enliven  the  dulness  of  an 
evening. 


134  "MISTRESS  MOLLY" 

Molly.  Oh,  there's  now  and  then  a 
quilting  bee,  and  sometimes  we  have 
church  "socials"  where  we  play  the  most 
exciting  games. 

Captain.  Uo  you  indeed?  And  what, 
I  pray,  are  some  of  these  exciting  games? 

Molly  {shyly).  "Drop  the  handker- 
chief" is  one,  and  —  and  we  also  play 
"snuff  the  candle." 

Captain.  "Snuff  the  candle?"  What 
may  that  game  be  like? 

Molly.     Well,  you  see  there  are  lighted 
candles  Kke  —  why,  like  those  there  in       Anticipation    of    the    pame    to 
the     candlestick.     Then    some    one    is  lere'cT-Z''.'"   ='"""'^*'""    '^' 

blindfolded,  and  —  {Clapping  her  hands.) 
Oh,  captain,  let's  ask  the  soldiers  in  and 
play  the  game.     It's,  oh,  such  fun! 

Captain  {douhtjully).  But  —  but  that 
will  spoil  our  tctc-d-iete. 

Molly.  Yes,  I  know;  but  it's  lots 
jollier  to  have  a  crowd.  Besides,  cap- 
tain, it's  a  —  er  —  kissing  game. 

Captain  {with surprise).  A  what?  Oh, 
I  say,  my  dear,  we  don't  need  a  crowd  to 
play  that  sort  of  game. 

Molly  {petulantly).  Oh,  yes,  we  do. 
{Pouting.)     I     ought      to     know.     I've  m.  b.  ^  (a) 

played  it.     (/;/  a  wheedling  tone.)     Now,       ^  '^''"^''^'^  °^  '"'"'^^• 
captain,    please   invite   the    soldiers   in. 
I  —  I    want    to    see    them.     Don't    be 
squeamish. 

Captain.  Well,  well!  you  certainly 
have  a  winning  way  with  you.  The 
boys  will  be  glad  enough  to  come.  {Call- 
ing.)    Ho,  corporal! 

{Enter  corporal,  R.) 

Corporal  (saluting).  What's  wanted, sir? 


"MISTRESS  MOLLV" 


135 


Captain  {ret urn i  11  g  salute).  Ask  the 
boys  to  step  this  waj'.  Our  little  guest 
here  desires  to  (ha,  ha  ha!)  play  games 
with  them. 

What!     Hall. of  them,  sir? 
Exactl}-.     Be    quick    about 


Corporal. 
Captain. 
it,  please. 
Corporal. 


W'ery  well,  sir. 


II.  3  (a) 
The  pivotal  jjoint  of  the  plot. 
The  Captain's  permission  for 
the  soldiers  to  enter  leads 
to  the  ultimate  capture  of 
the  fort. 


{E.xit   CORPORAL,    R.) 

Captain.  Now,  my  daint}-  little  lady, 
you  are  about  to  behold  the  mighty  troops 
of  good  old  England.  In  serried  ranks 
they  shall  stand  before  you 

Molly  {interrupting).  The  entire  gar- 
rison, mind.  Every  British  soldier  must 
do  me  homage. 

Captain  {laughing).  Ha,  ha,  ha!  What 
an  exacting  little  despot  you  are,  to  be 
sure!  Well,  you  shall  see  every  mother's 
son  of  them.  {Sound  of  tramping  out- 
side.)    And  here  they  come. 


{Enter  corporal,  R.,  followed  by  soldiers. 
Some  of  the  soldiers  are  shy  and  awk- 
ward, others,  self-confident  and  bold.) 


III.  B.  2  (a) 
Contrast    in    the    appearance    of 
the  soldiers. 


Captain  {to  soldiers).  Lads,  this  is 
our  guest  —  Mistress  Molly  Temperton. 
Salute  her. 

Soldiers  salute.) 


Molly  {clapping  her  hands).  Oh,  isn't 
it  pretty!  {To  captain  —  demurely.) 
Would  you  mind  having  them  do  it 
again? 

Captain      {with     admiration).      Egad, 


136 


"MISTRESS  MOLLY" 


you're  a  cool  one!  {To  soldiers.)  Boys, 
the  little  lady  here  is  going  to  teach  us  a 
new  game.  They  play  it  at  (ha,  ha  ha!) 
church  "socials"  across  the  lake. 

Molly.  Yes;  and  —  and  it's  a  mon- 
strously exciting  game.  (Takes  can- 
delabrum from  table,  watching  the  soldiers 
cunningly  meanwhile.)  You  see,  I  —  I 
place  this  candlestick  on  the  window 
ledge  —  so.  {Places  candelabrum  al  icin- 
dow;  pauses  as  if  fearing  that  she  has 
aroused  suspicion,  then  sighs  with  relief.) 
Ah!  {Turns  to  soldiers  abruptly.)  Has 
each  of  you  a  pocket-handkerchief?  {All 
reply,  taking  handkerchiefs  from  pockets. 
Some  answer,  "  Yes;"  others,"  Yes,  mum," 
"Certainly,"  etc.)  Good!  Now  will  you 
be  so  kind  as  to  tie  your  handkerchiefs 
tightly  about  your  eyes? 

Captain  {remonstrating).  Why,  my 
dear,  not  all  of  us  at  once,  surely? 

Molly.  Yes,  all  at  once.  I  know 
how  the  game  is  played. 

Captain.     Yes,  but 

Molly  {imperiously).  Not  another 
word!  (Shyly.)  Do  you  think  I  have 
no  modesty?  Would  I  wish  to  kiss  the 
lucky  man  with  all  the  others  looking 
on.  Fie,  captain!  Your  knowledge  of 
women  is  not  over  keen  for  one  who  wears 
a  soldier's  uniform. 

Captain  (hesitating).  Perhaps  not; 
yet 

Molly.  Oh,  captain,  how  monstrously 
dense  you  are!  (In  a  loud  whisper.) 
Suppose  —  er  —  suppose  I  want  to  help 
you  win  the  prize? 

Captain.  By  Jove,  what  a  little  witch 
you  are!     I  ween  there's  method  in  thy 


III.  B.  I  (b) 
The  candlestick  serves  the  dou- 
ble   purpose    of    an    object    in 
the    Kama    and    the    signal    to 
the  Colonists  outside. 
X. 
This  use  of  the  candlestick  has 
been  anticipated. 


HI.  B.  3  (a) 

Mental  contlict  follows. 


''MISTRESS  MOLLY 


137 


madness.  (To  soldiers.)  Well,  lads,  let 
it  be  as  Mistress  Temperton  ordains. 
Bind  the  kerchiefs  firmly  about  your  fore- 
heads, and  don't  dare  remove  them, 
whatever  happens,  unless  I  so  command. 
I'll  set  you  a  good  example.  (To  molly.) 
Wilt  give  me  thine  assistance,  Mistress 
JMoIly? 

Molly.  Yes  indeed.  (Tics  handker- 
chief about  capt.-mn's  eyes.  It  should 
be  so  arranged  that  he  can  easily  sec 
through  it.  Soldiers,  including  corporal, 
help  one  another  adjust  blind/olds.) 
There,  'tis  done!     Canst  see? 

Captain.  No,  i'  faith!  I'm  totally 
bereft  of  sight. 

Molly  (10  soldiers).  And  are  the 
rest  of  you  as  firmly  hoodwinked?  (Sol- 
diers answer  affirmatively  as  before.)  Very 
well.  We're  ready  now,  I  think.  Cap- 
tain, I'll  turn  thee  about  thrice  that 
you  ma}'  not  find  the  candlestick  too 
easily.  Then,  if  thy  wits  be  sharp  and 
thy  lungs  right  strong,  three  trials  should 
suffice  to  snuff  each  candle  on  the  window 
ledge  and  give  thee  thy  reward. 

Captain  (impatiently).  Nectar  of  the 
gods!  Hurry,  little  Hebe;  my  lips  are 
on  fire ! 

Molly.  Make  ready  then.  (Turns  cap- 
T.AIN  about  three  times,  counting  as  she 
turns.)  Once  —  twice  —  thrice.  Now 
find  the  candles  if  j'ou  can.  I  wish 
thee  luck!  (captain  moves  toward  the 
window  with  hands  outstretched,  pausing 
before  the  candelabrum.)  Bravo!  Now 
blow  right  lustily,  (captain  bloivs, 
a)id  one  candle  is  extinguished.)  Good! 
Again,     (molly   edges    toward    door,    C. 


III.  A.  s  (a) 
Anticipation     of     later    conduct 
of    soldiers.      See     annotation 
lettered   "Q". 


Z. 

Anticipation  of  game  realized. 


Ill    B.   I  (c) 
A    touch   of   irony:    the    Captain 
himself  blows  out  the  candles, 
which    is    the    signal    lor    the 
attack  on  the  fort. 


I3S 


"MISTKK'iS  MOLLY" 


CAPI'AIN  l/lincs  It  .second  time,  mid  another 
candle  is  extinguished.  The  stage  lights 
are  lowered  as  each  candle  goes  out.  molly 
applauds  as  captain  extinguishes  the 
second  candle.)  Excellent,  captain,  ex- 
cellent! 

Captain  {turning  quickly  toward  her). 
\Miat  are  30U  doing  at  that  door? 

Molly.  How  do  you  know  I'm  at  the 
door? 

Captain  {stammering).  Why  —  why 
—  because 

Molly  {severely).  Yes;  because  you're 
cheating.  So,  my  clever  captain,  you  can 
see!  The  honest  country  youths  who 
play  this  game  play  fair.  Their  manners 
were  not  learned  at  George's  court.  {Opens 
door.)     I'm  going  home. 

Captain     {sharply). 
mand  it. 


Molly    {snapping 
for  thy  commands ! 
Captain.     What! 


Stop!     I    com- 
Ji}igers) .     That 


You  dare  defy  me? 


(captain  tears  his  handkerchief  from  his 
eyes,  and  quickly  extinguishes  the  re- 
maining candle.  The  only  light  on 
the  stage  is  thai  which  shines  fai fitly 
through  the  doorway.  The  lake  is  seen 
through  the  open  door,  and  the  clouds 
in  the  distance  are  tinged  with  the  pur- 
ple glow  of  dawn.) 


III.   B.  3  (a) 
Mental  conflict  becomes  sharper 


III.  A.  3  M 
The  emotional  stimulus  of  light 
is  introduced  naturally   by  the 
tinge  of  dawn  seen  through  the 
open  door 


Molly  {speaking  from  doonvay).  Yes 
I  do  defy  thee.  See,  'tis  daybreak. 
Long  will  thy  country  remember  this 
day! 

Captain.     What  do  you  mean? 

Molly.  Oh,  you  will  learn  my  mean- 
ing soon  enough.     Good-morrow. 


'    :    . 

.  -..^  . 

Kr^^^A 

^ 

.   V        ^ 

fr 

i 

^ 

^^fc>^^  ^i 

e». 

j^^^^^^ 

■ 

CflH^H 

I. 

■^•na  .T-isjiiKr^-  s=4^'\ii8i>ct»¥T 


"MISTRESS  MOLLY 


141 


Captain.  Stay!  You  promised  me  a 
kiss. 

Molly.  But  you  cheated  to  obtain 
it. 

Captain  {striding  fonoard  and  seizing 
her  roughly  in  his  arms).  Yes,  I  cheated 
—  cheated  that  I  might  crush  thy  haughty 
spirit,  httle  rebel.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it,  eh?  You  are  in  my  power. 
.\]\  these  soldiers  here  are  at  my  beck 
and  call.  Poor  old  grandpa  is  your  only 
protector  —  feeble  old  grandpa,  who  waits 
on  the  shore  of  the  lake  till  morning 
for  his  wayward  grandchild  to  return  to 
him.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Come  —  give  me 
the  kiss,  my  pretty,  or  I'll  take  it  of  my 
own  free  will. 

Molly  (screaming  and  struggling  vio- 
lently).    Let  me  go,  sir.     I 

Captain.  Scratch  and  scream,  my 
little  temptress!  —  'twill  avail  thee  little. 
Grandpa  is  a  wee  bit  deaf,  you  know. 


111.  B.  3  (1)1 
Here   the  conflict  becomes   pliys- 
ical,  and  the   Captain  triumphs 
for  the  moment. 


The  Captain   recalls  the  fact  lluil 
"grandpa"  is  deaf. 


{Enter  JOE  Fleming  hurriedly,  C.    He  has 
discarded  his  false  wig  and  heard.) 


Joe.  Not  so  deaf  as  you  surmise, 
my  valiant  captain.  {Sternly.)  Release 
Mistress Temperton  instantly,  or  I'll  show 
thee  how  straight  a  Continental  soldier 
shoots. 


III.  B.  3  (b) 
With   the   appearance  of  Juc   the 
Captain    is    in    turn   overpow- 
ered by  physical  force. 


{Aims  pistol  at  captain.) 


Captain  {starling  back).  What  means 
this  threat?     I 

Molly.  It  means  that  I  have  won 
the  game.  Captain  Dorrington,  I  bid 
thee  surrender. 


142  "MISTRESS  MOLLY" 

{Eiilcr  coiiHlry  youllis,  C.  Tlicy  stand 
near  the  door  with  muskets  aimed 
al  British  soldiers,  who  are  huddled 
together  at  L.) 

Captain  (fiercely).     Surrender?    Never. 

Company,  attention!   A  thousand  curses!  Q. 

They  have  no  arms,  and  are  standing  '"'l^ticSred  whl'„%lf  t^ufn^ 

in  the  corner  Hke  awkward  dunces.      Off  instructed    them   not   to   re- 

.,,        ,            ,         ...                 ,      ^  move  the  kerchiefs   till  ordered 

With    those   kerchiefs,    men!     To   arms,  by  him  to  do  so. 

1  say! 

{The  soldiers,  including  corpor.^l,  remove 

kerchiefs,   and  stand  blinking,   as   if 

dazed.) 

Joe     (quietly     but     firmly).     Captain 

Dorrington,   resistance  is  useless.     You 

are   surrounded  by   Colonists  on  every 

side.     I   demand   the   surrender  of   this 

fort. 

(The  CAPTAIN  starts  forward  angrily,  hut 

pauses    before   the   lozcered    muskets, 

as   though   realizing  that   his   ejforts 

must  prove  inejfectual.     Gradually  he 

assumes  a  nonchalant  manner.) 

Captain     {shrugging     his     shoulders). 

Lads,  we're  overpowered.     We've  danced 

and  now  must  pay  the  fiddler.     {To  joe.) 

We  submit,  sir,  to  the  fortunes  of  war. 

Joe  {courteously).  You  will  find  our 
terms  most  rational. 

Molly.  W^ell,  captain,  I've  tarried 
over  long,  but  thy  company  is  vastly 
entertaining.  I'll  think  of  thee  when 
next  I  play  that  monstrously  exciting 
game  called  "snuff  the  candle."  Again 
I  bid  thee  good-morning. 

Captain  {with  elaborate  politeness). 
Good-morning,  Mistress  Tempcrton. 
That    little    game    will    cost    me    dear, 


"MISTRESS  MOLLY''  143 

but  then  —  who  knows?  —  mayhap  'tis   ^   .   III.  A.  4  (;0 

Another  humanizing  touch  —  the 
worth  it.  Captain    is    courteous    and    a 

"good  loser." 

(mistress   molly   makes   a   deep  curtsy, 
and  goes  out,  C.) 


A 

PROGRAM  OF  STUDY 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  PROGRAM    OF   STUDY 

In  studying  a  speciiic  play  the  student  will  doubtless 
lind  it  profitable  to  make  marginal  annotations  after 
the  style  indicated  in  the  preceding  chapter.  Before 
attempting  this  he  should  first  thoroughly  famiharize 
himself  with  the  story  of  the  play,  since  an  analysis 
of  parts  is  futile  without  a  comprehensive  knowledge 
of  the  whole. 

The  following  program  of  study,  arranged  somewhat 
in  the  form  of  an  examination  paper,  used  in  connection 
with  the  analytical  diagr.a.m  (page  41),  should  prove 
of  assistance: 

1.  To  what  extent  have  the  unities  been  observed? 

2.  Note  instances  in  which  characters  have  related 
events  which  have  occurred  prior  to  the  opening  of  the 
play. 

3 .  What  influence  have  these  past  events  exerted  on  the 
trend  of  the  action? 

4.  Is  the  plot  borrowed  or  original? 

5.  Does  the  play  recount  more  than  a  single  story? 
If  so,  distinguish  the  separate  stories. 

6.  What  is  the  method  of  plot  development?  If  it 
represents  a  rise  and  fall  of  fortunes,  where  does  the 
rise  end,  and  the  fall  begin?     If  the  action  is  concerned 

147 


I4S  .1   PKOaKAM  OF  STUDY 

with  the  fall  merely,  what  forces  have  given  impetus  to 
the  downward  motion? 

7.  Is  the  vehicle  of  expression  adapted  to  the  theme 
and  method  of  treatment? 

8.  Name  instances  where  music,  light,  tumult,  etc., 
are  introduced  as  essential  parts  of  the  play  itself. 

9.  Note  all  instances  of  anticipation. 

10.  Is  the  use  of  any  implement  necessary  at  some 
crisis  in  the  play?  If  so,  note  how  and  when  it  is  brought 
into  the  scene, 

11.  Is  there  any  event  out  of  which  the  subsequent 
action  is  evolved? 

12.  Note  instances  of  economy  in  the  introduction 
of  characters  or  objects. 

13.  Are  the  character  types  diversified?  Note  any 
further  use  of  contrast. 

14.  Is  the  story  of  the  play  based  on  conllict?  Note 
minor  instances  of  conflict. 

15.  Does  the  theme  appeal  to  popular  taste?  Name 
instances  in  which  the  audience  is  aware  of  a  situation 
which  is  represented  as  unknown  to  certain  of  the  char- 
acters. 


APPENDIXES 

ANNOTATED    PLAYS 

I.     The  Screen  Scene  from  The  School  for  Scandal 
II.     The  Trial  Scene  from  The  Merchant  of  Venice 
III.     Albert  Smith's  Dramatization  of  The  Cricket  o)!  the  Hearth 


IV.     A  List  of  Plays  Recommended  for  Study 


APPENDIX  I 


The  Screen  Scene  from 
The  School  for  Scandal 


APPENDIX  I 

INTRODUCTORY 

As  an  example  of  masterly  art  in  the  handling  of  a 
dramatic  situation,  the  Screen  Scene  from  Richard 
Brinsley  Sheridan's  The  School  for  Scandal  is  here 
printed. 

This  comedy  was  first  produced  at  the  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  London,  in  1777,  and  is  a  keen  satire  on  the 
manners  and  affectations  of  contemporary  society.  For 
the  benefit  of  those  readers  who  may  be  unfamiliar  with 
the  story  of  the  play,  the  following  explanation  of  the 
plot  is  given: 

Sir  Peter  Teazle  "marries  a  young  wife,"  who  was 
"educated  in  the  country."  After  her  marriage,  Lady 
Teazle's  desire  to  become  a  "woman  of  fashion"  leads 
her  to  associate  with  Lady  Sneerwell  and  other  scandal- 
loving  celebrities, and  to  engage  in  a  mild  flirtation  with 
one  Joseph  Surface.  Joseph's  "real  attachment"  is  to 
Sir  Peter's  ward,  Maria  (or  rather  to  her  fortune),  but, 
finding  in  his  brother  Charles  a  "favored  rival,"  he 
has  been  obliged  to  "mask  his  pretentions,"  and  Lady 
Teazle  is  unaware  of  them.  Joseph  is,  in  reality,  "artful, 
selfish  and  malicious,"  but  "with  all  his  acquaintance 
he  passes  for  a  youthful  miracle  of  prudence,  good  sense 


154  APPENDIX 

and  benevolence,"  while  his  brother  Charles,  though 
reputed  to  be  "the  most  dissipated  and  extravagant 
young  fellow  in  the  kingdom,"  is,  in  point  of  fact,  honest, 
genuine  and  warm-hearted.  Sir  Peter  is  jealous  of  his 
young  wife,  but  does  not  suspect  her  interest  in  Joseph, 
erroneously  supposing  that  Charles  is  the  one  whom  she 
favors. 

The  Screen  Scene  follows: 


THE 

SCREEN   SCENE 

FROM 

"THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL" 

By 

RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN 

ACT  IV 

Scene  III. —  A  library  in  Joseph  sur- 
face's House,  Lo)ido)i.  A  large 
screen,  Pembroke  table,  ivith  a  book 
on  it;  chairs. 

JOSEPH    SURFACE    a)id    a    servant 
discovered. 

Joseph  S.  No  letter  f  roni  Lady  Teazle? 

Serv.     No,  sir. 

Joseph  S.  I  am  surprised  she  has  not 
sent,  if  she  is  prevented  from  coming. 
Sir  Peter  certainly  does  not  suspect  me. 
Yet  I  hope  I  may  not  lose  the  heiress 
through  the  scrape  I  have  drawn  myself 
into  with  the  wife;  however,  Charles's 
imprudence  and  bad  character  are  great 
points  in  mj'  favor.  [Knocking  heard 
without.] 


iS6 


THE  SCREEN  SCENE 


Scrv.  Sir,  I  believe  that  must  be 
Lady  Teazle. 

Joseph  S.  Hold!  See  whether  it  is 
or  not  before  you  go  to  the  door:  I  have 
a  particular  message  for  you  if  it  should 
be  my  brother. 

Serv.  'Tis  her  ladyship,  sir;  she  al- 
ways leaves  her  chair  at  the  milliner's 
in  the  ne.xt  street. 

Joseph  S.  Stay,  stay;  draw  that  screen 
before  the  window  —  (servant  docs  so) 
—  that  will  do;  —  my  opposite  neighbor 
is  a  lady  of  a  curious  temper,  (serv.vni 
exit.)  I  have  a  difficult  hand  to  play  in 
this  affair.  Lady  Teazle  has  lately  sus- 
pected my  views  on  ISIaria;  but  she  must 
by  no  means  be  let  into  the  secret,  —  at 
least,  till  I  have  her  more  in  my  power. 


Note    the  reference  to  the 
liner  and  the  screen. 


mil- 


Eiiter  L.AX)V  teazle. 


Lady  T.  What,  sentiment  in  soliloqu}' 
now?  Have  you  been  very  impatient? 
O  Lud!  don't  pretend  to  look  grave,  i 
vow  I  couldn't  come  before. 

Joseph  S.  O,  madam,  punctuality  is 
a  species  of  constancy'  verj'  unfashion- 
able in  a  lady  of  quality. 


Observe  the  repeated  references 
to  Joseph's  "sentiments''  until 
the  explosive  denunciation  of 
these  sentiments  by  Sir  Peter 
at  the  close  of  the  scene. 


[Places  chairs,  and  sits  after  lady  teazle 
is   seated. 


Lady  T.  Upon  my  word  you  ought  to 
pity  me.  Do  you  know,  Sir  Peter  is 
grown  so  ill-natured  to  me  of  late,  and 
so  jealous  of  Charles,  too  —  that's  the 
best  of  the  story,  isn't  it? 

Joseph  S.  (aside).  I  am  glad  my 
scandalous  friends  keep  that  up. 


Iii3cr5,a^"i'  nas^'ii^ij 


ii'ij^j.jcrv  •X3'::a5i-s'i' 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL  16 1 

Lady  T.     I  am  sure  I  wish  he  would  * 

let  Maria  marry  him,  and  then  perhaps 
he  would  be  convinced;  don't  you,  Mr. 
Surface? 

Joseph  S.  (aside).  Indeed  I  do  not. 
(Aloud.)  Oh,  certainly  I  do;  for  then 
my  dear  Lady  Teazle  would  be  also  con- 
vinced how  wrong  her  suspicions  were 
of  my  having  any  design  on  the  silly 
girl. 

Lady  T.  Well,  well,  I'm  inclined  to 
believe  you.  But  isn't  it  provoking  to 
have  the  most  ill-natured  things  said 
of  one?  And  there's  my  friend  Lady 
Sneerwell  has  circulated  I  don't  know  how 
many  scandalous  tales  of  me,  and  all 
without  any  foundation,  too  —  that's 
what  vexes  me. 

Joseph    S.      Ay,    madam,    to    be    sure,        Note  the  exquisite  satire  of  the 
that   is   the   provoking   circumstance  —  ensuing   la  ogue. 

without  foundation;  yes,  yes,  there's 
the  mortification,  indeed;  for  when  a 
scandalous  story  is  believed  against 
one,  there  certainly  is  no  comfort  like 
the  consciousness  of  having  deserved  it. 

Lady  T.  No,  to  be  sure,  then  I'd 
forgive  their  malice;  but  to  attack  me, 
who  am  really  so  innocent,  and  who  never 
say  an  ill-natured  thing  of  anybody  — 
that  is,  of  any  friend;  and  then  Sir  Peter, 
too,  to  have  him  so  peevish,  and  so  sus- 
picious, when  I  know  the  integrity  of 
my  own  heart  —  indeed,  'tis  monstrous! 

Joseph  S.  But  my  dear  Lady  Teazle, 
'tis  your  own  fault  if  3'ou  suffer  it. 
When  a  husband  entertains  a  ground- 
less suspicion  of  his  wife,  and  withdraws 
his  confidence  from  her,  the  original  com- 
pact is  broken,  and  she  owes  it  to  the 


i62  TJIR  SCREEN  SCENE 

honor  of  her  sex  to  endeavor  to  outwit 
him. 

Lady  T.  Indeed!  —  so  that  if  he  sus- 
pects me  without  cause  it  follows  that 
the  best  way  of  curing  his  jealousy  is  to 
give  him  reason  for't. 

Joseph  S.  Undoubtedly  —  for  j-our 
husband  should  never  be  deceived  in 
3-ou,  —  and  in  that  case  it  becomes  you  to 
be  frail  in  compliment  to  his  discern- 
ment. 

Lady  T.  To  be  sure,  what  you  saj-  is 
very  reasonable;  and  when  the  conscious- 
ness of  my  innocence 

Joseph  S.  Ah,  mj-  dear  madam,  there 
is  the  great  mistake;  'tis  this  very  con- 
scious innocence  that  is  of  the  greatest 
prejudice  to  you.  What  is  it  makes  j-ou 
negligent  of  forms,  and  careless  of  the 
world's  opinion?  Why,  the  conscious- 
ness of  your  own  innocence.  What 
makes  you  thoughtless  in  your  conduct, 
and  apt  to  run  into  a  thousand  little 
imprudences?  Whj',  the  consciousness 
of  your  own  innocence.  What  makes 
you  impatient  of  Sir  Peter's  temi)er,  and 
outrageous  at  his  suspicions?  \\'h\-,  the 
consciousness  of  your  innocence. 

Lady  T.     'Tis  very  true! 

Joseph  S.  Now,  my  dear  Lady  Teazle, 
if  you  would  but  once  make  a  trifling 
faux  pas,  you  can't  conceive  how  cautious 
you  would  grow,  and  how  ready  to 
humor  and  agree  with  your  husband. 

Lady  T.     Do  j-ou  think  so? 

Joseph  S.  Oh!  I  am  sure  on't;  and 
then  you  would  find  all  scandal  would 
cease  at  once;  for,  in  short,  your  char- 
acter at  present   is  like  a  person   in   a 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCA.WAL  1O3 

plethora,  absolutely  dying  from  too  much 
health. 

Lady  T.  So,  so;  then  I  perceive  your 
prescription  is  that  I  must  sin  in  my  own 
defense,  and  part  with  my  virtue  to  pre- 
serve my  reputation. 

Joseph  S.  Exactly  so,  upon  my  credit, 
ma'am. 

Lady  T.  Well,  certainly  this  is  the 
oddest  doctrine,  and  the  newest  receipt 
for  avoiding  calumny! 

Joseph  S.  An  infallible  one,  beheve 
me.  Prudence,  like  experience,  must 
be  paid  for. 

Lady  T.  Why,  if  my  understanding 
were  once  convinced 

Joseph  S.  Oh,  certainly,  madam, 
your  understanding  should  be  convinced. 
Yes,  yes  —  heaven  forbid  I  should  per- 
suade j'ou  to  do  anything  you  thought 
wrong.  No,  no,  I  have  too  much  honor 
to  desire  it. 

Lady  T.  Don't  you  think  we  may 
as  well  leave  honor  out  of  the  argu- 
ment? 

[Rises. 

Joseph  S.     Ah!  the  ill  effects  of  your       ^  ^^^p^^  ,^f  ^ady  Teazle's  true 
country  education,  I  see,  still  remain  with  character, 

you.  [Rises. 

Lady  T.  I  doubt  the)-  do,  indeed; 
and  I  will  fairly  own  to  you  that  if  I 
could  be  persuaded  to  do  wrong,  it 
would  be  by  Sir  Peter's  ill-usage  sooner 
than  your  honorable  logic,  after  all. 

Joseph  S.     Then,  by  this  hand,  which 

he  is  unworthy  of 

[Taking  her  hand. 

Enter   servant. 


i64  THE  SCREEN  SCENE 

S 'death,  you  blockhead;  what  do  you 
want? 

Scrv.  I  \w^  _\our  ])ar(lon,  sir,  but  I 
thought  }ou  would  not  choose  Sir  Peter 
to  come  up  without  announcing  him. 

Joseph  S.  Sir  Peter!  Oons  —  the 
devil! 

Lady  T.  Sir  Peter!  O  Lud  — I'm 
ruined  —  I'm  ruined! 

Serv.     Sir,  'twasn't  I  let  him  in. 

Lady     T.     Oh!     I'm    quite     undone! 

\\'hat    will    become   of   me?     Now,   Mr.       The  audience  shares  the  secret 

T •  r\uf  •        1     I  .1  of  Lady  Teazle's  hiding-place. 

Logic  —  Oh!    mercy,    sir,    he  s    on     the 

stairs.     I'll    get    behind    here,    and    if 

ever  I'm   so  imprudent   again 

[Goes  behind  screen. 

Joseph  S.  Give  me  that  book. 

[Sils  down,    servant  pretends  to  adjust 

his  chair. 

Enter  sir  peter. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  ever  improving  himself. 
Mr.  Surface,  Mr.  Surface. 

[Taps  JOSEPH  on  the  shoulder. 

Joseph  S.  Oh!  my  dear  Sir  Peter,  I 
beg  your  pardon  —  (gapping  —  throics 
away  the  book)  —  I  have  been  dozing 
over  a  stupid  book.  Well,  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you  for  this  call.  You  haven't 
been  here,  I  believe,  since  I  fitted  up 
this  room.  Books,  you  know,  are  the 
only  things  I  am  a  coxcomb  in. 

Sir.  P.  'Tis  very  neat  indeed.  —  Well, 
well,  that's  proper;  and  you  can  even 
make  your  screen  a  source  of  knowledge 
—  hung,  I  perceive,  with  maps? 

[Walking  up  towards  screen. 

Joseph  S.  O,  yes,  I  find  great  use  in 
that  screen. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


i6s 


[Turning  sir  peter  from  the  screen. 

Sir  P.  I  dare  say  you  must,  certainly, 
when  you  want  to  find  anything  in  a 
hurry. 

Joseph  S.  (aside).  Aye,  or  to  hide 
anything  in  a  hurry,  either. 

Sir  P.  Well,  I  have  a  little  private 
business 

Joseph  S.     You  need  not  stay. 

(To  the  SERVANT.) 

Serv.     No,     sir.  (Exit.) 

Joseph  S.  Here's  a  chair.  Sir  Peter  — 
I  beg 

Sir  P.  (sits).  Well,  now  we  are 
alone,  there  is  a  subject,  my  dear  friend, 
on  which  I  wish  to  unburden  mj'  mind 
to  you  —  a  point  of  the  greatest  moment 
to  my  peace;  in  short,  my  good  friend. 
Lady  Teazle's  conduct  of  late  has  made 
me  very  unhappy. 

Josephs,  (sealed).  Indeed!  lam  very 
sorry  to  hear  it. 

Sir  P.  Yes,  'tis  but  too  plain  she  has 
not  the  least  regard  for  me;  but  what's 
worse,  I  have  pretty  good  authority  to 
suppose  she  has  formed  an  attachment  to 
another. 

Joseph  S.     Indeed!     You  astonish  me! 

Sir  P.  Yes;  and,  between  ourselves, 
I  think  I've  discovered  the  person. 

Joseph  S.  How!  You  alarm  me  ex- 
ceedingly. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  my  dear  friend,  I  knew 
you  would  sympathize  with  me! 

Joseph  S.  Yes  —  believe  me,  Sir  Peter, 
such  a  discovery  would  hurt  me  just  as 
much  as  it  would  you. 

Sir  P.  I  am  convinced  of  it.  .\h!  it 
is  a  happiness  to  have  a  friend  whom  we 


Creation  of  suspense  —  the  au- 
dience is  eagerly  anticipating 
Sir  Peter's  discovery  of  Lady 
Teazle. 


1 66 


TIIK  SCREEN  SCENE 


can  trust  e\-cn  with  one's  fiimily  secrets. 
But  have  you  no  guess  who  I  mean? 

Joseph  S.  I  haven't  the  most  distant 
idea.  It  ean't  he  Sir  Henjamin  Hack- 
bite? 

Sir  P.  Oh,  no!  What  .say  you  to 
Charles? 

Joseph  S.     My  brother!     Impossible! 

Sir  P.  Oh!  my  dear  friend,  the  good- 
ness of  3'our  own  heart  misleads  you. 
You  judge  of  others  by  yourself. 

Joseph  S.  Certainly,  Sir  Peter,  the 
hearL  that  is  conscious  of  its  own  integ- 
rity is  ever  slow  to  credit  another's 
treachery. 

Sir  P.  True  —  but  your  brother  has 
no  sentiment  —  you  never  hear  him 
talk  so. 

Joseph  S.  Yet  I  can't  but  think  Lady 
Teazle  herself  has  too  much  principle. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  —  but  what  is  principle 
against  the  flattery  of  a  hand.somo,  lively 
young  felk)w? 

Joseph  S.     That's  very  true. 

Sir  P.  And  then,  you  know,  the 
difference  of  our  ages  makes  it  Aer}- 
improbable  that  she  should  have  any 
very  great  aiTection  for  me;  and  if  she 
were  to  be  frail,  and  I  were  to  make  it 
public,  why  the  town  would  onl}-  laugh 
at  me,  the  foolish  old  bachelor  who  liad 
married  a  girl. 

Joseph  S.  That's  true,  lo  be  sure  — 
the}'  would  laugh. 

Sir  P.  Laugh  —  ay,  and  make  ballads 
and  paragraphs,  and  tlie  devil  knows 
what  of  me. 

Joseph  S.  No,  you  must  ne\-er  make 
it  public. 


Observe  how  Joseph's  propensity 
for  uttering  "sentiments"  is 
made  to  serve  a  didactic  as 
well  as  a  dramatic  purpose. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SC.LXDAL 


167 


Sir  P.  But  then,  that  the  nephew  of 
my  old  friend,  Sir  Oliver,  should  be  the 
person  to  attempt  such  a  wrong  hurts 
me  more  nearly. 

Joseph  S.  Ay,  there's  the  point. 
When  ingratitude  barbs  the  dart  of 
injury,  the  wound  has  double  danger  in 
it. 

Sir  Peter.  Ay  —  I,  that  was,  in  a 
manner,  left  his  guardian;  in  whose  house 
he  has  been  so  often  entertained;  who 
never  in  my  life  denied  him  —  any  advice. 
Joseph  S.  O,  'tis  not  to  be  credited. 
There  may  be  a  man  capable  of  such 
baseness,  to  be  sure;  but  for  my  part 
till  you  can  give  me  positive  proofs,  I 
cannot  but  doubt  it.  However,  if  it 
should  be  proved  on  him,  he  is  no  longer 
a  brother  of  mine  —  I  disclaim  kindred 
with  him:  for  the  man  who  can  break 
through  the  laws  of  hospitality  and  tempt 
the  wife  of  his  friend,  deserves  to  be 
branded  as  the  pest  of  society. 

Sir    P.     What   a   difference    there    is 
between  you!     What  noble  sentiments! 
Joseph     S.     Yet     I     cannot     suspect 
Lady  Teazle's  honor. 

Sir  P.  I  am  sure  I  w'ish  to  think  well 
of  her,  and  to  remove  all  ground  of 
([uarrel  between  us.  She  has  lately  re- 
proached me  more  than  once  with  hav- 
ing made  no  settlement  on  her:  and, 
in  our  last  quarrel,  she  almost  hinted 
that  she  should  not  break  her  heart  if  T 
was  dead.  Now,  as  we  seem  to  difTer 
in  our  ideas  of  expense,  I  have  resolved 
she  shall  have  her  own  way,  and  be  her 
own  mistress  in  that  respect,  for  the 
future;  and  if  I  were  to  die  she  will  find 


Revelation  to  Lady  Teazle  of  Sir 
Peter's  real  nobility  of  char- 
acter. 


i68  THE  SCREEX  6C£A'£ 

I  have  not  been  inattentive  to  her  inter- 
est while  living.  Here,  my  friend,  are 
the  drafts  of  two  deeds,  which  I  wish 
to  have  your  opinion  on.  By  one,  she 
will  enjoy  eight  hundred  a  year  inde- 
pendent while  I  live;  and,  by  the  other, 
the  bulk  of  my  fortune  after  my  death. 

Joseph  S.  This  conduct.  Sir  Peter, 
is  indeed  truly  generous.  (Aside.)  I 
wish  it  maj-  not  corrupt  my  pupil. 

Sir  P.  Yes,  I  am  determined  she  shall 
have  no  cause  to  complain,  though  I 
would  not  have  her  acquainted  with  the 
latter  instance  of  my  affection  yet 
awhile. 

Joseph  S.  (Aside).  Nor  I,  if  I  could 
help  it. 

Sir  P.  And  now,  my  dear  friend,  if 
you  please,  we  will  talk  over  the  situa- 
tion of  your  hopes  with  Maria. 

Joseph  S.  (softly).  O,  no,  Sir  Peter; 
another  time,  if  you  please. 

Sir  P.  I  am  sensibly  chagrined  at 
the  little  progress  you  seem  to  make  in 
her  affections. 

Joseph  S.  I  beg  you  will  not  mention 
it,  sir.  What  are  mj^  disappointments 
when  your  happiness  is  in  deha.te?(Aside.) 
'Sdeath!  I  will  be  ruined  every  way. 

Sir  P.  And  though  you  are  averse  to 
my  acquainting  Lady  Teazle  with  your 
passion,  I'm  sure  she's  not  your  enemj- 
in  the  affair. 

Joseph  S.  Pray,  Sir  Peter,  now,  oblige 
me.  I  am  really  too  much  affected  by 
the  subject  we  have  been  speaking  of, 
to  bestow  a  thought  on  my  own  concerns. 
The  man  who  is  intrusted  with  his  friend's 
distresses  can  never 


THE  SCHOOL  I' OK  SCANDAL 


lOy 


Re-enter  servant. 


Well,  sir? 

Scrv.  Your  brother,  sir,  is  speaking  to  a 
gentleman  in  the  street,  and  says  he 
knows  you  are  within. 

Joseph  S.  'Sdeath,  blockhead,  I'm 
not  within  —  I'm  out  for  the  day. 

Sir  P  Stay  —  hold  —  a  thought  has 
struck  me !     You  shall  be  at  home. 

Joseph  S.  Well,  well,  let  him  up. 
{Exit  SERVANT.)  {Aside.)  He'll  inter- 
rupt Sir  Peter,  however. 

Sir  P.  Now,  my  good  friend,  oblige 
me  I  entreat  you.  Before  Charles  comes, 
let  me  conceal  myself  somewhere  — 
then  do  you  ta.x  him  on  the  point  we  have 
been  talking,  and  his  answer  may  satisfy 
me  at  once. 

Joseph  S.  O  fie,  Sir  Peter!  would  you 
have  me  join  in  so  mean  a  trick?  To 
trepan  my  brother,  too? 

Sir  P.  Nay,  you  tell  me  you  are 
sure  he  is  innocent;  if  so,  you  do  him  the 
greatest  service  by  giving  him  an  op- 
portunity to  clear  himself,  and  you  will 
set  my  heart  at  rest.  Come,  you  shall 
not  refuse  me:  {Going  up)  here,  behind 
the  screen  will  be  —  Hey!  what  the 
devil!  there  seems  to  be  one  listener  here 
already;  I'll  swear  I  saw  a  petticoat. 

Joseph  S.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Well  this  is 
ridiculous  enough.  I'll  tell  you.  Sir 
Peter,  though  I  hold  a  man  of  intrigue 
to  be  a  most  despicable  character,  yet 
you  know,  it  does  not  follow  that  one  is 
to  be  an  absolute  Joseph,  either!  Hark'ee, 
'tis  a  little  French  milliner  —  a  silly  rogue 
that    plagues    me, —  and    having    some 


Increase  in  suspense. 


A  natural  touch.  It  is  at  the 
mi. liner's  that  Lady  Teazle 
"always  leaves  her  chair." 


THE  SCREEN  SCENE 


character  to  lose,  on  3'our  coming,  sir, 
she  ran  behind  the  screen. 

Sir  P.  Ah!  Joseph!  Joseph!  Did  I 
ever  think  that  you  —  But,  egad  she 
has  overheard  all  I  ha\c  Ix-en  saying  of 
my  wife. 

Joseph  S.  O,  'twill  never  go  further, 
}'ou  may  depend  upon  it. 

Sir  P.  No?  then,  faith,  let  her  hear 
it  out.     Here's  a  closet  will  do  as  well. 

Joseph  S.     Well,  go  in  there. 

Sir  P.     Sly  rogue!  sly  rogue! 

[Goi)ig  into  the  closet. 

Joseph  S.  A  narrow  escape,  indeed; 
and  a  curious  situation  I'm  in,  to  part 
man  and  wife  in  this  manner. 

Lady  T.  [peeping).  Couldn't  I  steal 
ofif? 

Joseph  S.     Keep  close,  my  angel! 

Sir  P.  {peeping  out).  Joseph,  tax 
him  home. 

Joseph  S.     Back,  ni}-  dear  friend! 

Lady  T.  Couldn't  you  lock  Sir  Peter 
in? 

Joseph  S.     Be  still,  my  life! 

Sir  P.  {peeping).  You're  sure  the 
little  milliner  won't  blab? 

Joseph  S.  In,  in,  my  dear  Sir  Peter. 
Tore  Gad,  I  wish  I  had  a  ke\-  to  the 
door. 

E)tlcr  CH.\RLES  SURF.ACE. 


The  interest  nf  the  auilience  is 
further  enhanced  Ijy  knowledge 
of  Sir  Peter's  concealment. 


Charles  S.  Holloa!  brother,  what  has 
been  the  matter?  Your  fellow  would 
not  let  me  up  at  first.  What!  have  you 
had  a  Jew  or  a  wench  with  you. 

Joseph  S.  Neither,  brother,  I  assure 
yon. 

Charles   S.     But   what    has   made   Sir 


^'!i.ii5T2'i3'a2   ii^ars.'a":35(0 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL  173 

Peter  steal  off?     I  thought  he  had  been 

with  you. 

Joseph  S.    He  wc/^iibrtjther;  but  hearing 

you  were  coming,  he  did  not  choose  to  stay. 

Charles  S.      What?  was  the  old  gentle-        Sir  Peter  has  already  statcfl  that 
.     .  he    never    in    his    life    denied 

man  airaid  1  wanted  to  borrow  money  of  Charles  —  "any  advice!" 

him? 

Joseph  S.  No,  sir;  but  I  am  sorry  to 
find,  Charles,  that  you  have  lately  given 
that  worthy  man  grounds  for  great  uneasi- 
ness. 

Charles  S.  Yes,  they  tell  me  I  do  that 
to  a  great  many  worthy  men.  But 
how  so,  pray? 

Joseph  S.  To  be  plain  with  you, 
brother,  he  thinks  you  are  endeavoring 
to  gain  Lady  Teazle's  affections  from 
him? 

Charles  S.  Who,  I?  O  Lud,  not  I, 
upon  my  word.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  So 
the  old  fellow  has  found  out  that  he  has 
got  a  young  wife,  has  he? 

Joseph  S.  This  is  no  subject  to  jest 
on,  brother.     He  who  can  laugh 

Charles  S.  True,  true,  as  you  were 
going  to  say;  then,  seriously,  I  never  had 
the  least  idea  of  what  you  charge  me 
with,  upon  my  honor. 

Joseph  S.  Well,  it  will  give  Sir  Peter 
great  satisfaction  to  hear  this. 

Charles  S.  To  be  sure,  I  once  thought 
the  lady  seemed  to  have  taken  a  fancy 
to  me;  but,  upon  my  soul,  I  never  gave 
her  the  least  encouragement:  —  besides, 
you  know  my  attachment  to  Maria. 

Joseph  S.  But,  sure,  brother,  even  if 
Lady  Teazle  had  betrayed  the  fondest 
partiality  for  you 

Charles  S.     Why,   look'ec,   Joseph,   I 


174  THE  SCREEN  SCENE 

hope  I  shall  iu-\cr  ddilx-ratily  do  a  dis- 
honorable action;  but  if  a  pretty  woman 
was  i)urposely  to  throw  herself  in  my 
way,  and  that  pretty  woman  married  to 
a  man  old  enough  to  be  her  father 

Joseph  S.     Well 

Charles  S.  Why,  I  believe  I  should 
be  obliged  to 

Joseph  S.     \\'hat? 

Charles  S.     To  borrow  a  little  of  jour 

morality,    that's    all.      But,     brother,    do        Observe  the  cntrast  in  the  en- 
•^  '  >.  .^. ,    va  J  \  ersation  and  character  of  the 

you  know  now  that  you  surprise  me  ex-  brothers, 

ceedingly  by  naming  ;«e  with  Lady 
Teazle;  for,  i'faith  I  always  understood 
you  were  her  favorite. 

Joseph  S.  O,  for  shame,  Charles! 
This  retort  is  foolish. 

Charles  S.  Nay,  I  swear  I  have  seen 
you  exchange  such  significant  glances 

Joseph  S.  Nay,  nay,  sir,  this  is  no 
jest. 

Charles  S.  Egad,  I'm  serious.  Don't 
you  remember  one  day  when  I  called 
here 

Joseph  S.     Nay,  prithee,  Charles 

Charles  S.  And  found  3'ou  to- 
gether   

Joseph  S.     Zounds,  sir!  I  insist 

Charles  S.  And  another  time,  when 
your  servant 

Joseph  S.  Brother,  brother,  a  word 
with  you!  (Aside.)  Gad,  I  must  stop 
him. 

Charles  S.     Informed,  I  say,  that 

Josephs.  Hush!  I  beg  your  pardon, 
but  Sir  Peter  has  overheard  all  we  have 
been  saying.  I  knew  you  would  clear 
yourself,  or  I  should  not  have  consented. 

Charles  S.  How,  Sir  Peter.  Where  is  he? 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


175 


Joseph    S.     Softly;    there! 

[Points  to  tlie  closet. 

Charles  S.  O,  'fore  heaven,  I'll  have 
him  out.     Sir  Peter,  come  forth! 

[Trying  to  get  to  the  closet. 

Joseph  S.     No,  no 

Charles  S.  I  say.  Sir  Peter,  come  into 
court  —  {Pulls  in  SIR  peter.) —What! 
my  old  guardian!  What! — turn  inquis- 
itor, and  take  evidence  incog?  O,  lie! 
O,  fie! 

Sir  P.  Gi\c  mc  your  hand,  Charles; 
T  believe  I  have  suspected  you  wrongfully 
but  you  mustn't  be  angry  with  Joseph  — 
'twas  my  plan! 

Charles  S.     Indeed! 

Sir  P.  But  I  acquit  you.  I  prom- 
ise you  I  don't  think  near  so  ill  of  3'ou 
as  I  did:  what  I  have  heard  has  given  mc 
great  satisfaction. 

Charles  S.  {apart  to  Joseph).  Egad 
then,  'twas  lucky  you  didn't  hear  any 
more,  wasn't  it,  Joseph? 

Sir  P.  Ah!  you  would  have  retorted 
on  him. 

Charles  S.     Ay,  ay,  that  was  a  joke. 

Sir  P.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  his  honor  too 
well. 

Charles  S.  But  you  might  as  well 
suspect  him  as  ;;/(■  in  this  matter,  for 
all  that.  {Apart  to  Joseph.)  Mightn't 
he,  Joseph? 

Sir  P.     Well,  well,  I  believe  you. 

Joseph  S.  {aside).  Would  thej'  were 
both  out  of  the  room! 

Sir  P.  And  in  future,  perhaps,  we 
mav  not  lie  such  strangers. 


A  characteristic  touch.  Charles's 
many  creditors,  referred  to  else- 
where in  the  play,  are  doubt- 
less responsible  for  his  famil- 
iarity with  tlie  judicial  sum- 
mons. 


Re-enter  sekvaxt,  and  whispers  to  Joseph. 


176 


THE  SCREEN  SCENE 


Serv.  Lady  Snccrwcll  is  below,  and 
says  she  will  come  up. 

Joseph  S.  Lady  Sneerwell!  Gad's 
life!  She  must  not  come  here!  (Exit 
SERVANT.)  (ientlcmcn,  I  beg  pardon; 
I  must  wait  on  you  downstairs;  here  is  a 
person  come  on  particular  business. 

diaries  S.  Well,  you  can  see  him  in 
another  room.  Sir  Peter  and  I  have  not 
met  for  a  long  time,  and  I  have  something 
to  say  to  him. 

Joseph  S.  (aside).  The)'  must  not 
be  left  together.  I'll  send  Lady  Sneer- 
well  away,  and  return  directly.  (Apart 
to  SIR  PETER.)  Sir  Peter,  not  a  word  of 
the  French  milliner. 

Sir  P.  (crossing,  and  apart  to  Joseph). 
I!  not  for  the  world!  (Exit  Joseph.) 
Ah!  Charles,  if  you  associated  more  with 
your  brother,  one  might  indeed  hope  for 
your  reformation.  He  is  a  man  of  senti- 
ment. Well,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
so  noble  as  a  man  of  sentiment. 

Charles  S.  Pshaw!  he  is  too  moral  by 
half,  and  so  apprehensive  of  his  good  name 
as  he  calls  it  that  he  would  as  soon  let 
a  priest  into  his  house  as  a  wench. 

Sir  P.  No,  no.  Come,  come,  jou 
wrong  him.  No,  no!  Joseph  is  no  rake, 
but  he  is  no  such  saint  either,  in  that 
respect.  (Aside.)  I  have  a  great  mind 
to  tell  him  —  we  should  have  such  a 
laugh  at  Joseph. 

Charles  S.  Oh,  hang  him!  He's  a 
very  anchorite,  a  young  hermit. 

Sir  P.  Hark'ee  —  you  must  not 
abuse  him;  he  may  chance  to  hear  of  it 
again,  I  promise  you. 

Charles  S.     Why,  you  won't  tell  him? 


The  arrival  of  Lady  Sneenvell 
draws  Joseph  from  the  room, 
and  affords  an  opportunity  for 
Sir  Peter  to  acquaint  Charles 
with  the  concealment  of  the 
"French  milliner." 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCAXDAL 


177 


Sir  P.  No  —  but  —  this  way.  (Aside.) 
Egad,  I'll  tell  him.  (Aloud.)  Hark'ee 
—  have  you  a  mind  to  have  a  good  laugh 
at  Joseph? 

Charles  S.     I  should  like  it  of  all  things. 

Sir  P.  Then,  i'faith,  we  will  —  I'll 
be  quit  with  him  for  discovering  me. 
(Whispers.)  He  had  a  girl  with  him  when 
I  called. 

Charles  S.     What!  Joseph?     You  jest. 

Sir  P.  Hush!  —  a  little  French  mil- 
liner —  and  the  best  of  the  jest  is,  she's 
in  the  room  now. 

Charles  S.     The  devil  she  is! 

[Looking  at  closet. 

Sir  P.     Hush!  I  tell  youl 

[Points    to   screen. 

Charles  S.  Behind  the  screen!  'Slife, 
let's  unvail  her. 

Sir  P.  No,  no  —  he's  coming;  you 
shan't,  indeed! 

Charles  S.  Oh,  egad,  we'll  have  a 
peep  at  the  little  milliner. 

Sir  P.  Not  for  the  world;  Joseph  will 
never  forgive  me 

Charles  S.     I'll  stand  by  you 

Sir  P.  Odds,  here  he  is.  (joseph 
SURFACE  enters  just  as  Charles 
SXJRFACE  throws  down  the  screen.) 

Charles  S.  Lady  Teazle!  by  all  that's 
wonderful ! 

Sir  P.  Lady  Teazle  —  by  all  that's 
damnable! 

Charles  S.  Sir  Peter,  this  is  one  of  the 
smartest  French  milliners  I  ever  saw. 
Egad,  you  seem  all  to  have  been  divert- 
ing yourselves  here  at  hide  and  seek,  and 
I  don't  see  who  is  out  of  the  secret. 
Shall    I    beg   your   ladyship    to    inform 


The  irony  of  circumstance.  Sir 
Peter's  desire  to  "have  a  good 
laugh  at  Joseph"  results  in  a 
laugh  at  his  own  expense. 


i-S  THE  SCREEN  SCENE 

me?  Not  a  word!  Hrolhcr,  will  you 
be  ])leased  to  explain  this  matter? 
What!  is  Morality  dumb  too!  Sir  Peter, 
though  I  found  you  in  the  dark,  perhai)s 
you  are  not  so  now!  All  mute!  Well, 
though  I  can  make  nothing  of  the  affair, 
T  suppose  you  perfectly  understand  one 
another  —  so  I'll  leave  you  to  yourselves. 
(Going.)  Brother,  I'm  sorry  to  find  you 
have  given  that  worthy  man  grounds  for 
so  much  uneasiness.  Sir  Peter!  there's 
nothing  in  the  world  so  noble  as  a  man 
of  sentiment.  [Exit] 

Joseph  S.  Sir  Peter  —  notwithstand- 
ing _  I  confess  —  that  appearances  are 
against  me  —  if  you  will  afford  me 
your  patience  — I  make  no  doubt  — 
but  I  shall  exi)Iain  everything  to  your 
satisfaction. 

Sir  P.  If  you  please,  sir. 
Joseph  S.  The  fact  is,  sir,  that  Lady 
Teazle,  knowing  my  pretensions  to  your 
ward  Maria  — I  say,  sir.  Lady  Teazle, 
being  apprehensive  of  the  jealousy  of 
your  temper— and  knowing  my  friendship 
to  the  family  —  she,  sir,  I  say,  —  called 
y,ere  — in  order  that  —  I  might  explain 
these  pretensions  —  but  on  your  com- 
ing—being apprehensive  —  as  I  said 
—  of  your  jealousy  — she  withdrew  — 
and  this,  you  may  depend  on  it,  is  the 
whole  truth  of  the  matter. 

Sir  P.  A  very  clear  account,  upon 
my  word;  and  I  dare  swear  the  lady  will 
vouch  for  every  article  of  it. 

Lady  T.  {coming  forward).  For  not 
one  word  of  it.  Sir  Peter! 

Sir  P.     How!  don't  you  think  it  worth       ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^^,  ^^^^j^^ 
while  to  agree  in  the  lie! 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCAADAL 


179 


Lady    T.     There   is   not   one   syllable 
of  truth  in  what  that  gentleman  has  told 


Sir  P.  I  believe  you,  upon  my  soul, 
ma'am! 

Joseph  S.  (aside). —  'Sdeath,  madam, 
will  you  betray  me? 

Lady  T.  Good  Mr.  Hypocrite,  by 
your  leave,  I'll  speak  for  myself. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  let  her  alone,  sir;  you'll 
find  she'll  make  out  a  better  story  than 
you,   without  prompting. 

Lady  T.  Hear  me.  Sir  Peter!  I  came 
hither  on  no  matter  relating  to  your 
ward,  and  even  ignorant  of  the  gentle- 
man's pretensions  to  her.  But  I  came 
seduced  by  his  insidious  arguments,  at 
least  to  listen  to  his  pretended  pas- 
sion, if  not  to  sacrifice  your  honor  to 
his  baseness. 

Sir  P.  Now,  I  believe,  the  truth  is 
coming,  indeed. 

Joseph  S.     The  woman's  mad! 

Lady  T.  No,  sir,  she  has  recovered 
her  senses,  and  your  own  arts  have  fur- 
nished her  \vith  the  means.  Sir  Peter, 
I  do  not  expect  you  to  credit  me, 
but  the  tenderness  you  expressed  for 
me,  when  I  am  sure  you  could  not  think 
I  was  a  witness  to  it,  has  so  penetrated 
to  my  heart  that  had  I  left  the  place 
without  the  shame  of  this  discovery,  my 
future  life  should  have  spoken  the  sin- 
cerity of  my  gratitude.  As  for  that 
smooth-tongued  hjqjocrite,  who  would 
have  seduced  the  wife  of  his  too  credu- 
lous friend,  while  he  affected  honorable 
addresses  to  his  ward  —  I  behold  him 
now  in  a  light  so  truly  despicable,  that 


Note  also  that  the  essential  prin- 
ciples of  dramatic  contlict  are 
in  evidence  throughout  the 
scene.  Joseph  is  striving  d) 
to  prevent  Lady  Teazle  from 
learning  of  his  intentions  re- 
garding Maria,  (2)  to  keep  from 
Sir  Peter  the  knowledge  of 
Lady  Teazle's  presence,  and 
(3)  to  prevent  Charles  frojn 
inadvertently  revealing  to  Sir 
Peter  his  intrigue  with  Lady 
Teazle. 

The  situation  which  Joseph's 
hypocritical  conduct  has  in- 
vited is  itself  the  means  by 
which  he  is  undone. 


i8o  THE  SCREEN  SCENE 

I   shall   never  again   respect   mj'sclf   for 
having  listened  to  him. 

\ExiL\ 

Joseph  S.  Notwithstanding  all  this, 
Sir  Peter,  Heaven  knows  ■ 

Sir  P.  That  you  are  a  \illain!  and  so 
I  leave  you  to  your  conscience. 

Joseph  S.  You  are  too  rash,  Sir 
Peter;  you  shall  hear  me.  The  man  who 
shuts  out  conviction  by  refusing  to 

Sir  P.     O,  damn  your  sentiments! 

[Exeunt    sir    peter    and    surface, 
lalki)ig. 

END      OF      ACT     IV. 


Ti3ii«i^TVf^(t5rs'  irirt:)>v.<Mn3 


APPENDIX  II 


The  Trial  Scene  from 
T/ie  Merchant  of  Venice 


APPENDIX  II 

INTRODUCTORY 


The  Trial  Scene  from  The  Merchant  of  Venice 
has  been  selected  as  illustrating  the  dramatic  principles 
of  contrast,  conflict,  and  suspense.  Schlegel  has  said 
of  this  scene  that  it  "is  in  itself  a  perfect  drama." 


THE 
TRIAL  SCENE 

FROM 

THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 

By 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE    I.   Venice.  A     Court    of    Justice. 
Enter  the  duke,  the  Magniticoes,  an- 

TONIO,    BASSANIO,     CRATIANO,     SAL- 

ERio,  and  others. 

Duke.     What,  is  Antonio  here? 
.1  ntonio.     Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 
Duke.     I  am  sorry  for  thee:   ihou  art 
come  to  answer 
A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 
Uncapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 
From  any  dram  of  mercy. 

Antonio.  I  have  heard 

Your  grace   hath    ta'en   great   pains   to 

quahfy 
His  rigorous  course;  but  since  he  stands 

obdurate 
And   that    no   lawful    means    can    carry 

me 
Out  of  his  envy's  reach,  I  do  oppose 

187 


The  opponents  in  the  conllict 
IplaintilT  and  defendant)  are 
Shylock  and  Antonio.  Note  the 
description  of  Shylock  and  the 
contrast  between  his  character 
and  that  of  Antonio. 


THE  TRIAL  SCENE 


My  patience  to  his  fury,  and  am  arm'd 
To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit, 
The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

Duke.     Go  one,  and  call  the  Jew  into 

the  court. 
Salerio.     He  is  ready  at  the  door:  he 
comes,  my  lord. 

Enter  shylock. 

Duke.     Make  room,  and  let  him  stand 

before  our  face. 
Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think 

so  too, 
That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy 

malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act;  and  then   'tis 

thought 
Thou'lt    show  thy  mercy  and   remorse 

more  strange 
Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty; 
And  where  thou  now  exact'st   the  pen- 
alty, 
Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's 

flesh, 
Thou  wilt  not  only  loose  the  forfeiture, 
But,  touch'd  with  human  gentleness  and 

love. 
Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal; 
Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses. 
That  have  of  late  so    huddled    on    his 

back. 
Enow  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down 
And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 
From  brassy  bosoms  and  rough  hearts 

of  flint, 
From  stubborn  Turks  and  Tartars,  never 

train'd 
To  offices  of  tender  courtesy. 
We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 


Some  critics  are  inclined  to 
think  that  the  Duke  expresses 
the  original  intention  of  Shy- 
lock, who  desired  merely  to 
humiliate  Antonio  by  placing 
him  under  oljligation  to  one 
of  a  race  he  despised,  but  that 
at  the  last  moment  rage  matb 
him  insist  upon  the  literal  ful- 
fillment of  Antonio's  promise. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE  189 

Shylock.  I  have  possess'd  your  grace 
of  what  I  purpose; 

And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn 

To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond: 

If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 

Upon  your  charter  and  your  city's  free- 
dom. 

You'll  ask  me,  why  I  rather  choose  to 

have 

A  weight  of  carrion  flesh  than  to  receive        ol  ■    ■  •        ,_  , 

bhylock    remains   obdurate,    and 
Three  thousand  ducats :  1 11  not  answer  insists  upon  iiis  technical  rights. 

that: 
But,  say,  it  is  my  humor:  is  it  answer 'd? 
What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a 

rat 
And  I  be  pleas'd  to  give  ten  thousand 

ducats 
To  have  it  baned?  What,  are  you  answer'd 

yet? 
Some  men  there  are  love  not  a  gaping 

pig; 

Some,   that    are    mad  if  they  behold  a 

cat; 
For  affection, 

Mistress  of  passion,  swap's  it  to  the  mood 
Of  what  it  hkes  or  loathes.     Now,  for 

your  answer: 
As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  render'd. 
Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig; 
Why  he,  a  harmless  necessary  cat; 
So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not, 
More  than  a  lodg'd  hate  and  a  certain 

loathing 
I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 
A    losing    suit    against    him.     Are    you 

answer'd? 
Bassanio.     This   is   no   answer,    thou 

unfeehng  man, 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 


ipo  THE  TRIAL  SCENE 

Shylock.     1    am    not   bound    to   iilcasc 

thee  with  my  answers. 
Bassauio.     Do  all    men  kill  ihc  things 

ihey  do  not  love? 
Shylock.     Hates  any  man  the  thing  he 

would  not  kill? 
Bassauio.     Every  offense  is  not  a  hale 

at  first. 
Shylock.     What,  would'st  thou  have  a 

serpent  sting  thee  twice? 
Antonio.     I     pray     you,     think     you 

question  with  the  Jew: 
You  may  as  well  go    stand    upon    the 

beach 
And  bid   the  main  flood  bate  his  usual 

height; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the 

wolf 
Why  he  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  the 

lamb; 
You  may  as   well  forbid   the   mountain 

pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops  and  to  make  no 

noise, 
When  they  are  fretten  with  the  gusts  of 

heaven ; 
You   may   as    well    do    anything    most 

hard, 
As   seek    to   soften    that  —  than     which 

what's  harder?  — 
His  Jewish  heart:  therefore,  I  do  beseech       Antonio  abandons  ihe  conflict. 

you, 
Make   no   more   offers,   use   no   further 

means. 
But  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency 
Let  me  have  judgment  and  the  Jew  his 

will. 

Bassanio.      For    thy    three   thousand       Bassanio    makes   an  appeal    to 

bhylock  s  avarice, 
ducats  here  is  six. 


.'!i-ii'«3Ti'^'irTr'!=5  -jr"j:t(>.>j.^?5 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE  193 


Shylock.     If  every  ducat  in  six  thou- 
sand ducats 
Were  in  six   parts    and    every    ]iart    a 

ducat, 
I  would  not  draw  them;  I  would  have  my 

bond. 
Duke.     How  shalt  thou  hojie  for  mercy, 

rend'ring    none? 
Shylock.    What  judjiment  shall  I  dread, 

doing  no  wrong? 
You  have  among  >ou  many  a  ])urclias'd 

slave. 
Which,   like   your   asses    and   your  dog 

and  mules. 
You     use    in     abject     and     in     slavish 

parts. 
Because  you  bought  them:  shall  I  say 

to  you, 
Let  them  be  free,  marry  them  to  your 

heirs? 
Why   sweat   they   under   burthens?    let 

their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  yours  and  let  their 

palates 
Be    season'd    with    such    viands?     You 

wiU  answer, 
"The  slaves  are  ours:"  so  do  I  answer 

you: 
The  pound  of  flesh,  which  I  demand  of 

him, 
Is  dearly  bought;    'tis  mine  and  I  will 

have  it. 
If  you  deny  me,  fie  upon  your  law! 
There    is    no    force    in    the    decrees    of 

Venice. 
I  stand  for  judgment:   answer;   shall   I 

have  it? 
Dtike.     Upon  my  power  I  may  dismiss 

this  court, 


194 


THE  TRIAL  SCENE 


Unless  Ik'llario,  a  learned  (ioclor,  ""pe   is   revived   and   the  sus- 

VJ11H.33  w>.iiu,i.    ,  ,  pense  sustained   liy   the   refer- 

Whom  I  have  sent  for  to  delerminc  this,  ence  to  Kellario. 

Come  here  to-day. 

Salcrio.  j\I)' lord,  here  stays  with- 

out 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  doctor,       interest  is  stii!  further  increased 
_  _  r  T-.     1  I'V  the  announcement  that  the 

New  come  from  Padua.  m'esscn^er    has    arrived. 

Duke.     Bring  us  the  letters;  call   the 

messenger. 

Bassaiiio.   Good  cheer,  Antonio!  What, 

man,  courage  yet! 

The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  l^lood ,  hones       ^'^^^S^''  auhude'  'amr'nut^^of 

and  all,  liassanio. 

Ere  thou  shalt   lose  for  me  one  drop  of 
blood. 
Antonio.    I  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the 
flock, 

Meetest  for  death:  the  weakest  kind  of 
fruit 

Drops  earliest  to  the  ground;  and  so  let 
me: 

You    cannot    better   be  cmploy'd,    Bas- 
sanio, 

Than   to  live  still    and  write  mine  epi- 
taph. 

Enter   nerissa,    dressed   like   a   lau'ver's 
clerk. 

Duke.     Came  you  from  Padua,  from 
Bellario? 

Nerissa.     From  both,  my  lord.     Bel- 
lario greets  your  grace. 

[Prescnling  a  Idler. 

Bassanio.      Why    dost    thou  whet    lln-        The  whetting  of  the   knife   sug- 
,     .r  .IT  gests  physical  conllitt. 

knife  so  earnestly.-' 

Shylock.     To   cut  the   forfeiture   from 

that  bankrupt  there. 
Gratiano.     Not   on   thy   sole,   but    on 

thy  soul,  harsh  Jew, 


THE  MEKCIIANT  OF   VENICE  195 

Thou    mak'st    thy    knife    keen;    but    no 
metal  can, 

No,    not    the    hangman's   ax,    bear   half 
the  keenness 

Of    thy   sharp   envy.     Can    no    prayers 
pierce  thee? 
Shylock.     No,    none    that    thou    hast 

wit  enough  to  make. 
Gratiano.     Oh,   be   thou    damn'd,    in- 
exorable   dog ! 

.\nd  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accus'd. 

Thou   almost  mak'st   me   waver   in  my 
faith 

To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 

That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 

Into  the    trunks    of    men  :    thy    currish 
spirit 

Govern'd  a  wolf,  who,  hang'd  for  human 
slaughter, 

Even  from  the  gallows  did  his  fell  soul 
fleet, 

.\nd,   whilst   thou  la3''st   in   thy   unhal- 
low'd  dam, 

Infus'd  itself  in  thee;  for  thy  desires 

Are  woh'ish,  bloody,  starv'd,  and  raven- 
ous 
Shylock.     Till  thou  canst  rail  the  seal 
from  ofT  my  bond, 

Thou  but  offend'st  thy  lungs  to  speak 
so  loud: 

Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth,  or  it  will  fall       Shylock  continues  to  assert  that 

To  cureless  ruin.     I  stand  here  for  law.  ^'^  ^^^'^'^^  "P"-^  ^'^  '^^al  rights. 

Duke.     This  letter  from  Bellario  doth 
commend 

A  young  and  learned  doctor  to  our  court. 

Where  is  he? 

Nerissa.     He  attendeth  here  hard  by, 

To  know  your  answer,  whether  jou'll  ad- 
mit him 


196 


THE  TRIAL  SCENE 


Duke.   With  all  my  heart.    Some  three 
or  four  of  you 
Go  give  him  courteous  conduct   ti)  this 

place. 
]\leantime  the  court  shall  hear  Bellario's 
letter. 

Clerk  [Reads].  "  Your  grace  shall  un- 
derstand that  at  the  receipt  of  your  Icllcr 
I  am  very  sick:  but  in  the  instant  that 
your  messenger  came,  in  loving  visitation 
was  with  me  a  young  doctor  of  Rome;  his 
name  is  Balthasar.  I  acquainted  him 
with  the  cause  in  controversy  between  the 
Jew  and  Antonio  the  merchant:  we  turned 
o'er  many  books  together:  he  is  furnished 
with  my  opinion;  which,  better'd  with  his 
own  learning,  the  greatness  whereof  I  can- 
not enough  commend,  comes  with  him, 
at  my  importunity,  to  fill  up  your  grace's 
request  in  my  stead.  I  beseech  you,  let 
his  lack  of  years  be  no  impediment  to  let 
him  lack  a  reverend  estimation;  for  I  never 
knew  so  young  a  body  with  so  old  a  head, 
I  leave  him  to  your  gracious  acceptance 
whose  trial  shall  better  publish  his  com- 
mendation." 

Duke.     You  hear  the  learn'd  Bellario, 
what  he  writes: 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come. 

Enter  portia,  dressed  like  a  doctor 
of  laws. 

Give  me  your  hand.     Came  you  from  old 
Bellario? 
Portia.     I  did,  my  lord. 
Duke.     You   are   welcome:  take  your 
place. 
Are    you    aciiuainted    with    the    differ- 
ence 


Xote  tlic  Ciire  which  is  taken  to 
'/\vc  Portia  an  effective  en- 
trance. 


The  sickness  of  Bellario  gives 
plausibility  to  Portia's  pres- 
ence, and  the  fact  that  she 
is  'furnished  '  with  Bellario's 
"opinion"  renders  her  knowl- 
edge of  the  law  more  prob- 
able. 


The  people  in  the  play  arc  not 
aware  of  Portia's  identity,  but 
there  is  no  attempt  to  deceive 
the  audience,  who,  in  the  na- 
ture of  things,  must  recognize 
her  at  once. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 


197 


That,  holds  Ihis  present  question  in  the 
court? 
Portia.      I  am  informed  thoroughly  of 
the  cause. 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which 
the  Jew? 
Duke.     Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both 

stand  forth. 
Portia.     Is  your  name  Shylock? 
Shylock.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

Portia.     Of   a   strange   nature   is   the 
suit  you  follow; 
Yet  in  such  rule  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn  you  as  you  do  proceed. 
You  stand  within  his  danger,  do  you  not? 
Antonio.     Ay,  so  he  says. 
Portia.  Do    you    confess    the 

bond? 
Antonio.     I  do. 

Portia.   Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 
Shylock.     On   what    compulsion   must 

I?    tell  me  that. 

Portia.     The  qualit\'  of  mercy  is  not 

strain'd. 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath:  it  is  twice  blest; 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that 

takes: 
'Tis  mightiest  in   the  mightiest:  it  be- 
comes 
The   throned  monarch   better   than   his 

crown ; 
His  scepter  shows  the  force  of  temporal 

power. 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty. 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of 

kings; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  scepter'd  sway; 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 


Portia     immediately     takes 
place  in  the  conflict. 


her 


There  is  economic  significance  in 
the  fact  that  Portia,  whose  inar- 
riage  has  been  made  possible 
by  Antonio's  loan,  should  be 
the  agent  by  whom  Antonio  is 
extricated  from  the  disastrous 
consequences  resulting  from  his 
act  of  generosity.  The  two 
meet  now  for  the  first  time  in 
the  high  light  of  dramatic  con- 
trast, when  a  life  of  happiness 
has  been  assured  to  one,  and 
death  faces  the  other. 


iqS 


THE  TRIAL  SCENE 


It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest 

God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore, 

Jew, 
Though  justice  Ije  thy  plea,  consider  this, 
That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should   see   salvation:    we    do   pray    for 

mercy; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all 

to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus 

much 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea; 
Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of 

\'enice 
Must   needs   give   sentence    'gainst   the 

merchant  there. 
Shylock.     My   deeds   upon   my   head! 

I  crave  the  law. 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 
Forfia.     Is  he   not  able   to   discharge 

the  money? 
Bassanio.     Yes,  here  I   tender   it   for 

him  in  the  court; 
Yea,  twice  the  sum:  if  that  will  not  sullice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er. 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my 

heart : 
If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear 
That  malice  bears  down  truth.     .And  I 

beseech  30U, 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority: 
To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong, 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 
Portia.     It  must  not  be;  there  is  no 

power  in  Venice 
Can  alter  a  decree  established: 
'Twill  be  recorded  for  a  precedent, 


It  has  been  said  that  the  phiy 
"represents  human  life  as  a 
great  law-suit,  with  Shylock  im- 
personating revenge,  and  Por- 
tia mercy.''  In  this  view  of  the 
situation  we  may  regard  I'ortia 
as  testing  Shylock's  soul, 
and  pronouncing  sentence  only 
when  he  has  shown  himself  to 
be  incapable  of  a  single  hu- 
mane impulse. 


Observe  how  Portia  prolongs  the 

suspense: 
Her  plea  for  mercy  having  proved 

unavailing — ■ 

I.  She  rejects  Bassanio's  sup 

plication. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VEMCE  199 

And  many  an  error  by  the  same  example 
Will  rush  into  the  state:  it  cannot  be. 
Shylock.     A  Daniel  come  to  judgment 
yea,  a  Daniel! 
O    wise    young  judge,  how    I    do   honor 
thee! 
Portia.     I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon 

the  bond. 
Shylock.     Here  'tis,  most  reverend  doc- 
tor, here  it  is. 
Portia.     Shylock,    there's    thrice    thy 

monc}'  offer'd  thee. 
Shylock.     .\n  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an 
oath  in  heaven : 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul? 
No,  not  for  \'enice     .     . 

Portia.      Why,     this    bond    is     forfeit;  2.   she  examines  the  bond  and 

,  ,        .   „      ,         ,  .       ,       T  ,    .  declares  it  forlcit. 

.\nd  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 

.\  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 

Nearest  the  merchant's  heart.     Be  merci- 
ful: 

Take  thrice  thy  money;  bid  me  tear  the 
bond. 
Shylock.     When  it  is  paid  according  to 
the  tenor. 

It  doth  appear  3'ou  are  a  worthy  judge; 

You  know  the  law,  your  exposition 

Hath  been  most  sound:  I  charge  3'ou  by 
the  law. 

Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar. 

Proceed  to  judgment:  by  my  soul  I  swear 

There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 

To  alter  me:  I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 
Antonio.     Most  heartily  I  do  beseech 
the  court 

To  give  the  judgment. 

Portia.  Why  then,  thus  it  is: 

You    must     prepare     vour    bosom     for  ^,      , . ,     . 

,  .    ,     _  '  3.  She    1)'.ds    Antonio    prepare 

his  knife.  for  death. 


TIIK  TRIAL  SCENE 


Shylock.     O    noble    jucIkc!     0    excel- 
lent, young  man! 
Portia.     For  the   inlenl   and   i)uri)ose 
of  the  law 
Hath  full  relation  to  the  ])enalty, 
Which   here    appeareth    due    upon    the 
bond. 
Shylock.     'Tis  very  true:     O  wise  and 
upright  judge! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy 
looks! 
Portia.      Therefore     h\y     bare     your 

bosom. 
ShylocJi.  .Ay,  his  breast: 

So   says    the   bond:  doth   it   not,  noble 

judge? 
"Nearest  his  heart:"  those  are  the  very 
words. 
Portia.     It  is  so.     Are  there  balance 
here  to  weigh 
The  flesh? 

Shylock.     I  ha\'c  them  ready. 
Portia.     Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shy- 
lock, on  your  charge, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to 
death. 
Shylock.     Is   it   so   nominated   in   the 

bond? 
Portia.     It   is   not   so  express'd:    but 
what  of  that? 
'Twere  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 
Shylock.     I  cannot  find  it;  'tis  not  in 

the  bond. 
Portia.     You,  merchant,  have  you  any- 
thing to  say? 
Anto>iio.     But  Httle:  I  am  arm'd  and       Tht^.f^reweU  ^speech  of  Antonio 
well  prepar'd. 
Ciivc  me  your  hand,  Bassanicr.  fare  you 
well! 


4.  She  calls  for  scales  to  weigh 
tlie  llcsh. 


5.  She  orders  a  surgeon  to  stop 
Antonio's  wounds. 


intensifies  the  suspense. 


j<t>^iKJi°iLii  .7jc:j'':i'^j<::ii^t^<tj»r»' 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 


203 


Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for 

you; 
For  herein  Fortune  shows  herself  more 

kind 
Than  is  her  custom:  it  is  still  her  use 
To    let    the    wretched    man    outlive   his 

wealth. 
To  view  with  hollow  eye  and  wrinkled 

brow 
An  age  of  povert}';  from  whiih  ling'ring 

penance 
Of  such  a  misery  doth  she  cut  me  ofli 
Commend  me  to  your  honorable  wife: 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end; 
Say  how  I  lov'd  you,  speak  me  fair  in 

death ; 
And,  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be 

judge 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  los-e. 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your 

friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he    pays    j-our 

debt; 
For  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I'll  pay  it  presently  with  all  my  heart. 
Bassa)iio.     Antonio,  I  am  married  to 

a  wife 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world, 
Are  not  with  me  esteem'd  above  thy  life: 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

Portia.     Your    wife    would    give    you 

little  thanks  for  that, 
If  she  were  bj',  to  hear  you  make  the 

offer. 
Gratiano.     I    have   a   wife,   whom,    I 

protest,  I  love: 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 


This    bit    of    humorous    by-play 
inserted  in  the  midst  of  a  ser- 
ious situation  — 
I.  Exemplifies  the  principle  of 
contrast. 


2.  Makes  it  plain  that  Portia 
has  no  niisgivinfjs  as  to  the 
outcome  ul  the  trial. 


204 


THE  TRIAL  SCENE 


Entreat  some  power  to  ehaiiKe  this  cur- 
rish Jew. 
Nerissa.     'Tis  well  you  otter  it  heliiiul 
her   back ; 
The  wish  would  make  else  an   unquiet 
house. 
Shylock  [aside].     These  be  the   Chris- 
tian husbands.     I  have  a  daughter; 
Would  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas 
Had  been   her   husband   rather   than   a 

Christian! 
We  trifle  time:  I  ijray  thee,  pursue  sen- 
tence. 
Portia.     A  pound  of  that  same  mer- 
chant's flesh  is  thine: 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth 
give  it. 
Shylock.     Most  rightful  judge! 
Portia.     And  you  must  cut  this  flesh 
from  off  his  breast : 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards 
it. 
Shylock.     Most  learned  judge!     A  sen- 
tence!    Come,  prepare! 
Portia.     Tarry  a  little;  there  is  some- 
thing else. 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here    no    jot 

of  blood; 
The  words  expressly  are    "a    pound    of 

flesh:" 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pDiuul 

of  flesh ; 
But,  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands 

and  good;. 
Are,  by  the  laws   of   Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice. 

Gratiano.     O    upright    judge!     Mark, 
Jew:  O  learned  judge! 


3.  Emphasizes  a  personal  rea- 
son for  Shylock's  hatred  of 
Christians;  namely,  the  elope- 
ment of  Jessica. 


Portia  ends  the  suspense  at  last. 


The   tension   is   relieved   by   the 
mockery  of  Gratiano. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 

Shylock.     Is  that  the  law? 
Portia.  Thyself     shalt     see     the 

act: 
For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assur'd 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou 
desirest. 
Gratiano.     O    learned    judge!     Mark, 

Jew:  a  learned  judge! 
Shylock.     I  take  his  offer,  then;  pay 
the  bond  thrice 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bassanio.  Here  is  the  money. 

Portia.     Soft! 
The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice;  soft!   no 

haste: 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 
Gratiano.     O  Jew!   an  upright  judge, 

a  learned  judge! 
Portia.     Therefore    prepare    thee    to 
cut  of?  the  flesh. 
Shed  thou  no  blood,  nor  cut  thou  less 

nor  more 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh:  if  thou  cutt'st 

more 
Or  less  than  a  just  pound,  be  it  but  so 

much 
As  makes  it  light  or  hea\y   in    the  sub- 
stance 
Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scruple,   nay,   if  the  scale 

do  turn 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, 
Thou  diest  and  all  thy  goods  are  con- 
fiscate. 
Gratiano.     A  second  Daniel,  a  Daniel, 
Jew! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  you  on  the  hip. 
Portia.     Why   doth    the    Jew    pause? 
take  thy  forfeiture. 


2o6 


rilE  TRIAL  SCENE 


Shylock.     (jivc  mc  ni\-  jiriiu  ipal,  and 

let  me  go. 
Bassanio.     I   ha\c   it   ready  ior   ihcc; 

here  it  is. 
Portia.     He  hath  rcfus'd  it  in  the  open 
court: 
He    shah    have    merely  justice   and    his 
bond. 
Gratiaiio.     A    Daniel,    still    say    I,    a 
second  Daniel! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that 
word. 
iiliylocL     Shall     I     not    ha\-e     barely 

ni}'  principal? 
Poiiia.     Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but 
the  forfeiture. 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril,  Jew. 

Sliylock.     Why,    then    the    de\il    give 
him  good  of  it! 
I'll  stay  no  longer  question. 

Portia.  Tarry,    Jew: 

The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, 
If  it  be  prov'd  against  an  alien 
That  by  direct  or  indirect  attempts 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 
The  party  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  con- 
trive 
Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods;  the  other 

half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state; 
And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say ,  thou  stand'st ; 
For  it  appears,  by  manifest  proceeding, 
That  indirectly  and  directly  too 
Thou  hast  contriv'd  against  the  very  hfe 
Of  the  defendant;  and  thou  hast  incurr'd 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehears'd. 


An  iriiniial  touch:  Shylock  has 
insisted  tliat  the  letter  of  the 
lionil  must  be  maintained  and 
I'orlia  now  turns  his  own  wea- 
pons  against    him. 


Just  as  the  suspense  was  gradu- 
ally increased  and  sustained 
while  Shylock  was  apparently 
victor  in  the  contest,  so  now. 
when  he  has  become  van- 
quished, punishment  is  meted 
out  to  him  in  the  same  cumu- 
lative fashion. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE  207 


Down  therefore  and  beg  mercy  of  the 

duke. 
Graliano.     Beg  that  thou  mayst  have 

leave  to  hang  thyself: 
And  yet,  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the 

state, 
Thou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord; 
Therefore  thou  must  be  hang'd  at  the 

state's  charge. 
Duke.     That  thou  shalt  see  the  differ- 
ence of  our  spirit, 
I  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thou  a.sk 

it: 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's; 
The    other   half    comes    to    the   general 

state. 
Which   humbleness   may   drive   unto   a 

fine. 
Portia.     Ay,    for    the    state,    not    for 

Antonio. 
Shylock.     Nay,  take  my  life  and  all; 

pardon  not  that: 
You  take  my  house  when  you  do  lake 

the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house;  you  lake 

my  life 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereliy  I 

live. 
Portia.     What  mercy  can  you  render 

him,  Antonio? 
Graliano.     A    halter    gratis;    nothing 

else,  for  God's  sake. 
Antonio.     So  please  my  lord  the  duke 

and  all  the  court 
To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  goods, 
I  am  content;  so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use,  to  render  it, 
Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 
That  latelv  stole  his  daughter: 


2o8  TIIK  TRIAL  SCENE 

Two  ihiiiK^  provided  more-,  thai,  for  this 

favor, 
He  presently  become  a  Christian; 
The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift, 
Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd. 
Unto  his  son  Lorenzo  and  his  daughter. 
Duke.     He  shall  do  this,  or  else  I  do 
recant 
The  i^ardon  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 
Portia.  Art  thou  contented,  Jew?  what 

dost  thou  say? 
Shylock.     I  am  content. 
Portia.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of 

gift. 
Shylock.     I  pray  you,  give  me  leave      ^^^  conilict  ends  witb  Shylock's 
to  go  from  hence;  ""'"'"  ^"^'t- 

I  am  not  well:  send  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.     Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 
Gratiano.      In   christ'ning   shall    thou 
have  two  godfathers: 
Had  I  been  judge,  thou  shouldst  have 

had  ten  more, 
To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,   not  the 
font.  [Exit  Shylock. 

Duke.     Sir,  I  entreat  you  home  with  me 

to  dinner. 
Portia.     I  humbly  do  desire  your  grace 
of  pardon : 
I  must  away  this  night  toward  Padua, 
And  it  is  meet  I  presently  set  forth. 
Duke.     I  am  sorry  that  your  leisure 
serves  you  not. 
Antonio,  gratify   this  gentleman. 
For,  in  my  mind,  you  are  much  bound 
to  him. 

lE.xcu)it  DUKE  and  his  train. 
Bassanio.     Most    worthy    gentleman, 
I  and  my  friend 


THE  MERCIIAXT  OF  VENICE 


209 


Have    by   j-our    wisdom    Ijcen    lliis   da)' 

acquitted 
Of  grievous  penalties;  in  lieu  whereof, 
Three   thousand   ducats,   due   unto    the 

Jew, 
We    freely    cope    your    courteous    pains 

withal. 
Antonio.     And    stand    indebted,    over 

and  above. 
In  love  and  service  to  }ou  e\ermore. 
Portia.     He  is  well  paid  that  is  well 

satisfied; 
And  I,  delivering  you,  am  satisfied 
And  therein  do  account  myself  well  paid: 
M\'  mind  was  never  yet  more  mercenary. 
I  pray  you,  know  me  when  we  meet  again: 
I  wish  you  well,  and  so  I  take  my  lea\-e. 
Bassanio.     Dear  sir,  of  force  I  must 

attempt  you  further: 
Take  some  remembrance  of  us,  as  a  trib- 
ute. 
Not  as  a  fee:  grant  me  two  things,  I  pray 

you. 
Not  to  deny  me,  and  to  pardon  me. 
Portia.     You  press  me  far,  and  there- 
fore I  will  yield. 
[To  Antonio]     Giv'e  me  your  gloves,  I'll 

wear  them  for  your  sake; 
[To    Bassanio]     And,    for   your   love,     I 

take  this  ring  from  you: 
Do  not  draw  back  your  hand;  I'll  take 

no  more; 
.\nd  you  in  love  shall  not  deny  me  this. 
Bassanio.     This   ring,   good   sir,  alas, 

it  is  a  trifle! 
I  will  not  shame  myself  to  give  3'ou  this. 
Portia.     I  will  have  nothing  else  but 

only  this; 
And  now  methinks  I  have  a  mind  to  it. 


The  beginnins  of  a  new  suspense. 
When  and  how  will  Bassanio 
learn  who  the  "young  doctor 
of  Rome"  really  is. 


THE  TRIAL  SCENE 


Bassaiiio.     There's   more   depends   on 
this  than  on  the  value. 
The  dearest  ring  in  Venice  will  I  gi\e  you, 
And  find  it  out  by  proclamation: 
Only  for  this,  I  pray  j'ou,  pardon  me. 
Portia.     I  see,  sir,  you  are  liberal  in 
offers: 
You   taught   me  first   to  beg:   and   now 

methinks 
You  teach  me  how  a  beggar  should  be 
answer'd. 
Bassanio.     Good    sir,    this    ring    was 
given  me  by  my  wife; 
And  when  she  put  it  on,  she  made  me  vow 
That  I  should  neither  sell  nor  give  nor 
lose  it. 
Portia.     That  'scuse  serves  many  men 
to  save  their  gifts. 
And  if  your  wife  be  not  a  mad-woman, 
Andknowhowwelllhavedeserv'dthering, 
She  would  not  hold  out  enemy  forever. 
For  giving   it   to   me.     Well,   peace   be 
with  3'ou! 

[Excitiit  PORTIA  and  xerissa. 
Antonio.     My  Lord  Bassanio.  let  him 
have  the  ring: 
Let  his  deservings  and  m\-  love  withal 
Be  valued  'gainst  your  wife's  command- 
ment. 
Bassanio.   Go,  Gratiano,  run  and  over- 
take him; 
Give  him  the   ring,   and  bring   him,   if 

thou  canst, 
Unto  Antonio's  house:  away!  make  haste. 

[E.\:it    GRATIANO. 

Come,  you  and  I  will  thither  presently; 
.\nd  in  the  morning  early  will  we  both 
F]\-  toward  Belmont:  come,  Antonio. 
[Exeunt. 


The  dramatic  strain  is  relaxed  by 
the  introduction  of  the  episode 
of  the  ring,  which  later  plays 
Its  role  in  revealing  the  identity 
of  Portia  and  Xerissa. 


tsKoasdiK   a?n-::a^:^-.'\a«3")    ^^l^.'5k">v 


APPENDIX  III 


Albert  Smith's  Dramatization  ol 
The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth 


APPENDIX  III 

INTRODUCTORY 

We  have  elsewhere  noted  that  rules  of  construction 
are  but  the  means  to  an  end.  It  follows,  therefore, 
that  a  transgression  of  even  the  most  rigidly  prescribed 
laws  is  justifiable  if  a  higher  end  is  attained  thereby. 
Thus,  in  Albert  Smith's  dramatization  of  Dickens's 
The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  the  rule  that  the  audience 
must  always  share  the  dramatic  secret  is  violated  in 
order  that  complete  sympathy  may  be  accorded  John 
Perry  bingle. 

The  play  is  here  printed  in  full. 


2IS 


THE 

CRICKET   ON  THE  HEARTH 

A   DRAiSIA  IN  THREE   ACTS 

Dramatized  by 
ALBERT   SJMITH,   ESQ. 

CHARACTERS. 

John  Perrybingle,  a  carrier. 

Mr.  Tackleton,  a  toy  maker. 

Caleb  Plummer,  his  man. 

Old  Gentleman. 

Porter. 

Dot's  Father. 

Dot. 

Bertha,  a  blind  girl. 

Mrs.   Fielding. 

May  Fielding. 

Tilly  Slowboy. 

Mrs.  Dot. 

ACT  I. 

Scene. —  The  interior  of  john  perry- 
bingle's  Cottage.  A  fire  alight 
in  the  grate,  on  which  is  the  kettle, 
practicable  spout,  to  steam.  Table 
and  tea-things.  Chairs  by  the  fire. 
Cradle.  Door  L.  Window  with  cur- 
tain furniture.  At  the  rising  of  the 
curtain,  music;  tilly  slowboy 
is  sitting  down  on  a  low  stool,  nur- 
sing the  baby,  dot  is  busy  about. 
217 


2i8  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

Dot.  There!  there's  the  hum  —  and 
there's  the  tea  —  and  there's  the  bread! 
Now  all  is  comfortable  against  John 
comes  home.  Dear  me!  if  it  had  been 
for  anybody  else,  how  tired  I  should  have 
been!  and  cross,  too!  oh!  very  cross!  I'm 
sure  there  was  enough  to  make  me  so. 
First,  when  I  went  to  fill  the  kettle,  I 
lost  my  pattens,  and  splashed  my  legs  — 
that's  hard  to  bear  when  one  rather 
plumes  one's  self  upon  one's  legs,  and 
keeps  one's  self  particularly  neat  in  i)oint 
of  stockings.  Then  the  lid  of  the  kettle 
first  turned  itself  topsy-turvy,  and  then 
dived  sideways  in,  right  down  to  the  very 
bottom,  and  was  as  difficult  to  get  up 
as  if  it  had  been  the  wreck  of  the  Royal 
George!  But  now  everything's  right, 
and  I  can  sit  down  for  a  minute  in  com- 
fort and  cheerfulness. 
{MMsic.     She   sHs   dou-n   at   the    fireside.       No^^^.hc    -u^ahjcs.  ^  ..  ^U. 

The  chirp  of  the  cricket   is  heard  —  liciality  of  the  music. 

the  kettle  steams.) 
.\h!  there's  the  cricket  on  the  hearth 
again.  I  thought  it  wouldn't  be  quiet 
long  when  the  kettle  began  to  sing.  How 
its  voice  sounds  through  the  house,  and 
seems  to  twinkle  in  the  outer  darkness 
like  a  star.  Why,  I  declare  its  racing 
with  the  kettle  —  trying  to  get  before 
it!  It  can't,  though;  no,  no  —  the  kettle's 
not  to  be  finished  like  that!  How  I 
love  its  fireside  song  of  comfort;  and 
John  loves  it,  too.  He  says  it  alwaj's 
seems  to  say,  "Welcome  home,  old 
fellow;  welcome  home,  old  boy!"  He's 
very  late  to-night.  Hush!  I  hear  him. 
Yes.  I'm  sure  it  is.  {Rises.)  Give  me 
baby,  Tillj' ;  I  know  it  is  John  coming  home ! 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  219 


(Music.     She  lakes  the  baby  from  tti.ly, 
and  going  to  the  door,  opens  it. 
Fart  of  the  cart  is  seen,  with  a  lantern 

—  JOHN  comes  in,  stamping  with  cold 

—  snoiv  on  him  —  he  shalses  his  hat.) 
Oh!  goodness,  John  what  a  state  you're 

in,  with  the  weather. 

{.Issisls  him  to  undress.) 

John.  Why,  you  see,  Dot,  it  —  it 
ain't  exactly  summer  weather,  so  no 
wonder.  {Puts  dozen  parcels.) 

Dot.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me, 
Dot,  John  —  I  don't  like  it. 

John  {drawing  her  to  him).  Why,  little 
woman,  what  else  are  you?     A  dot,  and 

—  {looks  at  baby)  —  a  dot,  and  carry  — 
no,  I  won't  make  a  joke.  I  should  only 
spoil  it;  I  don't  know  that  I  was  ever 
nearer  one  though? 

Dot.     You    don't    notice    baby,    John 

—  ain't  he  beautiful?  Now  don't  he 
look  precious  in  his  sleep? 

John.     Very!     He  generally  is  asleep 

—  ain't  he? 

Dot.    Lor! John!  —  goodgracious  —  no! 

John.  Oh!  I  thought  his  eyes  were 
generally    shut.     Holloa! 

{Shouts  in  baby's  car.) 

Dot.  Goodness,  John !  how  _vou  startle 
one! 

Joli)!.  It  ain't  right  for  him  to  turn 
'em  up,  in  that  way,  is  it?  See  how  he's 
winking  with  'em  both  at  once?  And 
look  at  his  mouth!  Why,  he's  gasping 
like  a  gold  and  silver  fish! 

Dot  (with  dignity).  You  don't  deserve 
to  be  a  father  —  you  don't;  but  how 
should  you  know  what  little  comjilaints 
babies  are  troubled  with,  John? 


THE  CRICKET  OX  THE  HEARTH 


John.  No  —  it's  very  true,  Dot.  I 
don't  know  much  about  it — I  only 
know  the  wind's  been  blowing  northeast, 
straight  into  the  cart  the  whole  way 
home.      {Beginning  to  take  oJJ  his  coat.) 

Dot.  Poor  old  man!  so  it  has.  Here, 
take  the  precious  darling,  Tilly,  while  I 
make  myself  of  some  use.  Bless  it,  I 
could  smother  it  with  kissing  it,  I  could! 
Now  see  me  bustle  about,  John,  like  a 
busy  bee  —  "How  doth  the  little"  — 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  you  know,  John. 
Did  you  ever  learn  "How  doth  the  little" 
when  you  went  to  school,  John? 

John.  Not  quite  to  know  it.  I  was 
very  near  it,  once;  but  I  should  only 
have  spoiled  it,  I  dare  say. 

Dot  {laughs).  Ha!  ha!  what  a  dear 
old  dunce  you  are,  John,  to  be  sure! 
Here,  Tilly,  take  baby  —  and  don't  let 
him  fall  under  the  grate,  whatever  you 
do!  04/  table.)  There!  there's  the  tea- 
pot ready  on  the  hob  —  and  the  cold 
knuckle  of  ham  —  and  the  crusty  loaf  — 
and  there's  the  cricket! 

John  {having  hung  up  his  coat).  Hey- 
day! it's  merrier  than  ever  to-night,  I 
think.  {Goes  to  table.) 

Dot.  And  it's  sure  to  bring  us  good 
fortune,  John! 

John.  It  always  has  done  so.  To 
have  a  cricket  on  the  hearth  is  the  luck- 
iest thing  in  all  the  world. 

Dot  {sits  by  his  side  and  takes  his  hand). 
The  first  time  I  heard  its  chee.-ful  little 
note,  John,  was  on  that  night  when  you 
brought  me  to  my  new  home  here,  as 
its  little  mistress,  nearly  a  year  ago.  Vou 
recollect,  John? 


The  portrayal  of  John  as  a  "dear 
old  dunce"  makes  his  later 
misunderstanding  more  prob- 
able, and  appeals  at  once  to 
the  sympathy  of  the  audience. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  221 

John.     I  should  think  so,  Dot. 

Dot.  Its  chirp  was  such  a  welcome 
to  me!  It  seemed  so  full  of  promise  and 
encouragement.  It  seemed  to  say  you 
would  be  kind  and  gentle  with  me,  and 
would  not  expect  —  I  had  a  fear  of  that, 
John,  then  —  to  find  an  old  head  on  the 
shoulders  of  j^our  foolish  little  wife. 

John  {patting  her).  Xo,  no  —  I  was 
ciuite  content  to  lake  ihcm  a.-:  they  were. 

Dot.  It  spoke  the  truth,  John,  when 
it  seemed  to  say  so  —  for  you  have  ever 
been,  I  am  sure,  the  best,  the  most  con- 
siderate, the  most  affectionate  of  hus- 
bands to  me.  This  has  been  a  happy 
home,  John,  and  I  love  the  cricket  for  its 
sake! 

John.  \\'h\',  so  do  I,  then  —  so  do  I, 
Dot! 

Dot.  I  love  it  for  the  many  times  I 
have  heard  it,  and  the  many  thoughts  its 
harmless  music  has  given  me.  Some- 
times, in  the  twilight,  when  I  have  felt  a 
little  solitary  and  down-hearted,  John, 
before  baby  was  here  to  keep  me  com- 
pany, and  make  the  house  gay,  when  I 
have  thought  how  lonely  you  would  be  if 
I  should  die,  how  lonely  I  should  be  if  I 
could  know  that  you  had  lost  me,  dear, 
its  chirp,  chirp,  chirp  upon  the  hearth 
has  seemed  to  tell  me  of  another  little 
voice,  so  sweet,  so  very  dear  to  me,  before 
whose  coming  sound  my  trouble  vanished 

like  a  dream.     And  when  I  used  to  fear       ^his  fear  of  Dot's  gives  plausi- 
— I  did  fear  once,  John,  I  was  very  young,  bUky  to  John's  later  suspic- 

you  know  —  that  ours  might  be  an  ill- 
assorted  marriage;  I  being  such  a  child 
and  you  more  like  my  guardian  than  my 
husband;  and  that  \-ou  might  not,  however 


ions. 


222  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

hard  you  tried,  1k'  able  to  Iciirn  to  lo\x'  me 
as  you  hoped  and  prayed  you  mi^ht  — 
its  chirp,  chirp,  chirj)  has  cheered  me 
up  again,  and  filled  nie  with  new  trust 
and  confidence.  I  was  thinking  of  these 
things  to-night,  dear,  when  I  sat  expect- 
ing you;  and  I  love  the  cricket  for  their 
sake. 

John.  And  so  do  I!  But,  Dot!  / 
hope  and  pray  that  I  might  learn  to  love 
you?  How  you  talk!  I  had  learnt 
that  long  before  I  brought  you  here  to 
be  the  cricket's  little  mistress.  Dot. 
{Kisses  her,  then  she  rises.) 
Dot.  There  are  not  many  parcels 
to-night,  John.  {Goes  to  those  he  has 
put  down.)  Why,  what's  this  round  box? 
Heart  alive,  John,  it's  a  wedding  cake. 

John.  Leave  a  woman  alone  to  find 
out  that!  Now,  a  man  would  never  have 
thought  of  it;  whereas,  it's  my  belief 
that  if  you  was  to  pack  a  wedding  cake 
up  in  a  tea  chest,  or  a  turn-up  bedstead, 
or  a  pickled  salmon  keg,  or  any  unlikely 
thing,  a  woman  would  be  sure  to  find  it 
out  directly.  Yes,  I  called  for  it  at  the 
pastry  cook's. 

Dot  {reading).  Why,  John  —  good 
gracious,  John!  you  never  mean  to 
say  its  Gruff  &  Tackleton,  the  toy 
makers! 

Til.  {is  dancing  the  baby).  Was  it 
Grufif  &  Tackleton's,  the  toy  makers, 
then?  and  would  it  call  at  pastry  cooks 
for  wedding  cakes  —  and  did  its  mothers 
know  the  boxes,  whenits  fathers  brought 
them  homes.  Ketcher!  ketcher!  kctcher! 
Dot  {still  looking  at  the  parcel).  And 
so,   it's  really   come  about!     Why,   she 


B«34  •3If .Aa-53>     l^l.^y^i-iVUlKJ^l-J 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  225 


and  I  were  girls  at  school  together,  John 
—  and  he's  as  old  —  as  unlike  her.  How 
many  years  older  is  Gruff  &  Tackelton, 
John? 

John  (at  the  tabic).  How  many  more 
cups  of  tea  shall  I  drink  to-night  in  one 
sitting  than  Gruff  &  Tackleton  ever  took 
in  four,  I  wonder?  Ah!  as  to  eating, 
I  eat  but  little;  but  that  little  I  enjoy,  Dot. 
Why,  Dot!  (Raps  with  the  knife  on  table). 
Dot! 

(DOT  has  remained  plunged  in  thought 
since  she  last  spoke.  She  starts  at  the 
noise.) 

Dot.  Lor'  bless  me,  John!  I  beg  your 
|)ardon,  I  was  thinking.  Ah!  so  these 
are  all  the  parcels,  are  they,  John? 

John.  That's  all  —  why  —  no  —  I  — 
{Lays  down  knife  aM  fork.) —  I  declare  — 
I've  clean  forgotten  the  old  gentleman! 

Dot.     The  old  gentleman? 

John.  In  the  cart.  He  was  asleep 
amongst  the  straw  the  last  time  I  saw 
him.  I've  very  nearly  remembered  him 
twice  since  I  came  in,  but  he  went  out 
of  my  head  again.  Halloo!  yahip  there! 
{Goes  out  of  the  door.)  Rouse  up  there!  — 
that's  my  hearty! 

{Music  —  TILLY  looks  alarmed,  as  she 
hears  the  words,  "the  old  gentleman,^' 
and  crossing  to  dot  runs  against  the 
STRANGER,  With  baby's  head,  as  he 
enters,  introduced  by  johx.  The 
STRANGER  rcmovcs  his  hat,  and  re- 
mains bareheaded  in  the  centre  of  the 
room.) 

John.     You   are   such   an   undenia])le 


226  THE  CRICKET  OS   THE  HEARTH 

good  sleeper,  sir,  that  1  had  a  mind  to 
ask  you  where  the  other  six  are,  only 
that  would  be  a  joke  and  I  know  I  should 
spoil  it.  Ha!  hal  very  near,  though, 
very  near! 

(Music — TIiesTRAi<GER  looks  around  him,       ,,         ,  .  ,  ., 

^  ,  Note   the   mv'-t?noiisness  nf  the 

a)id  lioics  to  JOHN  and  DOT  gravely,  siran^-i-r. 

then,  striking  a  club  he  carries  on 

the  stage  it  falls  asunder,  and  forms 

a  species  of   camp-stool  —  he    sits 

doicn  on  it.) 

John.  There!  that's  the  way  I  found 
him,  sitting  by  the  roadside.  Ui)right 
as  a  millstone,  and  almost  as  deaf. 

Dot.     Sitting  in  the  open  air,  John? 

John.  In  the  open  air,  just  at  dusk. 
"Carriage  paid,"  he  said!  and  gave  me 
eighteen  pence.  Then  he  got  in;  and 
there  he  is! 

Stra.  If  you  please,  I  was  to  be  left 
till  called  for.     Don't  mind  me. 

{He  puts  on  a  pair  of  large  spectacles, 
takes  a  book  from  his  pocket,  and 
begins  to  read,  john  and  dot  look 
at  him  with  astonishment.) 

(To  JOHN,  nodding  his  head  toi.ard dot.) 
Your  daughter,  my  good  friend? 

John.     Wife! 

Stra.     Niece! 

John   (loud).     Wife! 

Stra.  Indeed;  surely  —  very  >-oung! 
(Reads  for  an  instant,  then  resumes.) 
Baby  yours?  (john  and  dot  nod  eagerly.) 
Girl? 

John  ibaii'ling).     B  —  o  —  y! 

Stra.     Also  very  young  —  eh? 

Dot  (baicis  in  str.wgk.r's  ear).     Two 


THE  CRICKET  OX  THE  HEARTH  227 


months  and  three  days!  —  vaccinated 
just  six  weeks  ago!  Took  very  finely  — 
considered  by  the  doctor  a  remarkably 
fine  child  —  equal  to  the  general  run  of 
children  at  five  months  old  —  takes  notice 
in  a  way  quite  wonderful  —  may  seem 
impossible  to  you,  but  feels  his  legs  al- 
ready!    (.4  knocking  at  the  door.) 

John.  Hark!  he's  called  for,  sure 
enough!  There's  somebody  at  the  door 
—  open  it,  Tilly. 

{.Uiisic  —  TILLY  goes  to  the  door,  opens  if, 
and  lets  in  caleb  in  his  sackcloth  coat.) 

Cal.  Good  evening,  John!  good  even- 
ing, mum!  good  evening,  Tilly  —  good 
evening,  unbeknown !  How's  bab}',  mum? 
Boxer's  pretty  well,  I  hope? 

Dot.  All  thriving,  Caleb!  I  am  sure 
you  need  only  to  look  at  the  dear  child, 
for  one  to  know  that. 

Cal.  And  I'm  sure  1  need  onl}'  look 
at  }'ou,  for  another  —  or  at  John,  for 
another  —  or  at  Tilly,  as  far  as  that 
goes. 

John.     Busy  just  now,  Caleb? 

Cal.  Why,  pretty  well,  John  —  this 
is  a  good  time  of  year  for  the  toy  business. 
There's  rather  a  run  upon  Noah's  arks, 
just  at  present.  I  wish  I  could  improve 
Noah's  family  —  but  I  don't  see  how  it's 
to  be  done  at  the  price.  It  would  be 
satisfaction  to  one's  mind  to  make  it 
clearer  which  was  Shems  and  Hams,  and 
which  was  wives.  Fhes  ain't  on  that 
scale  neither,  as  compared  with  the  ele- 
phant, you  know.  .\h,  well !  have  you  got 
anj'thing  in  the  parcel  line  for  me, 
John? 


228 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 


(jOHN  j;ocs  lo  L.  and  searches  his  coal 
pocket,  and  brings  out  a  Utile  plant 
in  a  flower- pot,  packed  up.) 


John.  There  il  is!  not  so  mucli  as  a 
leaf  damaged- — full  of  buds!  It  was 
very  dear,  though,  Caleb,  at  this  season. 

Cal.  Never  mind  that;  it  would  be 
cheap  to  me  whatever  it  cosV.  Any- 
thing else,  John? 

John.  A  small  box  —  here  you  arc! 
{Gives  box.) 

Cat.  {spelling).  "For  Caleb  Tlum- 
mer,  with  cash."  With  cash,  John? 
I  don't  think  it's  for  me. 

John.  With  care.  Where  do  you  make 
out  "cash?" 

Cal.  Oh!  to  be  sure.  It's  all  right  — 
"With  care?"  Yes,  yes,  that's  mine. 
Ah!  if  my  dear  boy  in  the  golden  South 
Americas  had  lived,  John,  it  might  have 
been  cash  indeed!  You  loved  him  like  a 
son,  didn't  you?  You  needn't  say  you 
did  —  I  know,  of  course.  (Reads.) 
"Caleb  Plummer,  with  care."  Yes,  yes; 
for  my  poor  blind  daughter's  work  — 
it's  a  bo.x  of  doll's  eyes.  I  wish  il  was 
her  own  sight  in  a  box,  John. 

John.     I  wish  it  was,  or  could  be. 

Cal.  Thank'ee,  you  speak  very  hearty. 
To  think  she  should  never  see  the  dolls, 
and  them  a  staring  at  her  bold  all  day 
long.  That's  where  it  cuts.  What's 
the  damage,  John? 

John.  I'll  damage  you,  if  you  inquire. 
Dot,  nearly  a  joke;  very  near,  wasn't  it? 
Stop,  Caleb  —  here's  something  for  your 
governor,  old  Gruff  &  Tackleton. 

Cat.    He  hasn't  been  here,  has  he? 


Anticipation;  but  very  guarded, 
since  the  identity  of  the  Stran- 
ger is  not  to  be  revealed  lo  the 
audience  till  the  dinouement. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  229 


John.  Not  he,  he's  too  busy,  court- 
ing. 

Cal.  He's  coming  round  though  —  he 
told  me  so.  He  isn't  a  pleasant  man, 
is  he,  John?  though  he  does  sell  toys. 
'Pon  m}'  honor  I  think  he  onlj-  likes  to 
sell  those  that  make  children  uncomfort- 
able. He  makes  all  the  grim  faces  to  the 
brown  paper  farmers  who  drive  the  pigs. 
And  if  you  knew  how  he  reveled  in  those 
hideous,  hairy,  red-ej-ed  jacks  in  boxes. 
Oh!  he  loves  them.  I  think  I'd  better 
go.  By  the  bye,  you  couldn't  have  the 
goodness  to  let  me  pinch  Boxer's  tail, 
mum,  for  half  a  moment,  could  you? 

Dot.     Why,  Caleb,  what  a  question. 

Cal.  Oh!  never  mind,  mum;  he 
mightn't  like  it,  perhaps.  There's  a  small 
order  just  come  in  for  barking  dogs,  and 
I  should  wish  to  go  as  close  to  nature  as 
I  could  for  sixpence.  That's  all,  never 
mind,  mum;  good-bye! 

{Hf  puts  the  ho.\  on  his  shoulder,  and  is 
going  out,  when  he  is  met  by  t.^ckle- 
TON  on  the  threshold.) 

Tac.  {entering).  Oh!  here  you  are, 
are  you?  Wait  a  bit;  I'll  take  you  home. 
John  Perrybingle,  my  service  to  you; 
more  of  my  service  to  your  pretty  wife. 
Handsomer  everj-  day!  Better,  too,  if 
possible.  {Aside.)  And  younger,  there's 
the  devil  of  it. 

Dot.  I  should  be  astonished  at  j'our 
paj'ing  compliments,  Mr.  Tackleton,  but 
for  your  condition. 

Tac.     Oh!  you  know  all  about  it,  then? 

Dot.  I  have  got  myself  to  believe  it 
somehow. 


230  TIIR  CRICKET  ON   THE  HEARTH 

Tac.  After  a  very  hard  sf  rugglc,  1  sup- 
pose. 

Dot.     Very. 

Tac.  In  three  days'  lime;  next  'Jhurs- 
day,  that's  to  be  my  wedding-day. 

John.     Why,  it's  our  wedding-day,  too. 

Tac.  Ha!  ha!  Odd!  You're  just  such 
another  couple,  just! 

Dot   {half  aside).     What  ne.xt?     He'll 

say  just  another  such  baby,  perhaps.  The 

man's  mad. 

Tac.      {to  John).      I   say,   a   word   with         Contrast    between    the    marriage 

.,       ,,,  '  of  John  and   Dot  and   the  iii- 

you.      \  ou  11     come     to     the     weddmg  —  tended  marriage  of    lackleton 

we're  in  the  same  boat,  you  know.  ^^'^  '^'''^'" 

John.     How  in  the  same  boat? 

Tac.  {nudging  him).  A  little  dis- 
parity, you  know.  Come  and  spend  an 
evening  with  us,  beforehand. 

John.     Why? 

Tac.  Why?  That's  a  new  way  of 
receiving  an  invitation!  Why,  for  pleas- 
ure, sociability,  you  know,  and  all  that. 

John.  I  thought  j'ou  were  never  soci- 
able. 

Tac.  Tchah!  It's  of  no  use  to  be 
anything  but  free  with  you,  I  see. 
Why,  then  the  truth  is,  you  have  a  — 
what  the  tea-drinking  people  call  a  —  a 
sort  of  comfortable  appearance  together, 
you  and  your  wife.  We  know  better, 
you  know  better,  but 

John.  No,  we  donH  know  i)etter. 
What  are  you  talking  about? 

Tac.  Well,  we  don't  know  better,  then; 
as  you  like;  what  does  it  matter?  I  was 
going  to  say,  as  you  have  a  sort  of  an 
appearance,  your  company  will  produce 
a  favorable  efTect  on  Mrs.  Tackleton 
that  will  l)e. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  231 


Jolm.  \A'e've  made  a  promise  to  our- 
selves, these  six  months,  to  keep  our 
wedding-da\'  at  home.  We  think  you 
see  that  home. 

Tac.  Bah!  what's  home?  {Cricket 
is  heard.)  Four  walls,  and  a  ceiling! 
\\'hy  don't  3'ou  kill  that  cricket !  I  would; 
I  ahva\s  do!     I  hate  their  noise. 

John.     You  kill  your  crickets,  eh? 

Tac.  Scrunch  'cm,  sir.  You'll  say 
you'll  come!  because  you  know  what- 
ever one  woman  says,  another  woman  is 
determined  to  clinch  always.  There's 
that  spirit  of  emulation  among  'em,  sir, 
that  if  j^our  wife  says  to  my  wife,  "I'm 
the  happiest  woman  in  the  \\orld,  and 
mine's  the  best  husband  in  the  world,  and 
I  dote  on  him! "  my  wife  will  say  the  same 
to  yours,  or  more;  and  half  believe  it. 

John.  Do  you  mean  to  say  she  don't, 
then? 

Tac.     Don't  Ha!    ha  —  don't    what? 

John.  Pshaw!  that  she  don't  believe 
it! 

Tac.  You're  joking.  I  have  the 
humor,  sir,  to  marry  a  young  wife,  and  a 
pretty  wife  —  I  am  able  to  gratify  that 
humor,  and  I  do  —  it's  my  whim.  But 
now,  look  there!  {Points  to  dot,  who  is 
sitting  at  the  fire.)  She  honors  and  obeys, 
no  doubt,  you  know;  and  that,  as  I  am 
not  a  man  of  sentiment,  is  quite  enough 
for  me.  But  do  you  think  there's  any- 
thing more  in  it? 

John.  I  think  I  should  chuck  any  man 
out  of  window  who  said  there  wasn't. 

Tac.  Exactly  so.  We're  exactly  alike 
in  reality,  I  see.  Good-night!  You 
won't  give  us  to-morrow  evening?  \\'ell, 


232 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 


next  day  you  go  visiting,  1   know.     I'll 

meet  you  there,  and  bring  my  wife  that 

is  to  be.     It'll  do  you  good.     (Jood  night! 

{As  he  is  f;oiiig,  dot  gives  a  loud  shriek, 

starts  up  from  her  seal,  and  re»nii)is 

transjixed  U'ith  terror  and  surprise. 

Piclure.     Musie.) 

Jolui.  Dot!  Mary,  darUng!  what's 
the  matter?  Are  you  ill?  {He  supports 
her.)     What  is  it?     Tell  me,  dear. 

(STR.\NGER  rises,  and  stands.) 

{dot  falls  into  a  fit  of  hysterical  laughter, 
clasps  her  hands  together  and  sinks 
upon  the  ground.) 

What  is  this,  Mary?  my  own  little 
wife  —  speak  to  me! 

Dot  {recovering).  I'm  belter,  John  — 
I'm  quite  well  —  now  —  I  —  a  kind  of 
shock  —  something  came  suddenly  be- 
fore my  eyes  —  I  don't  know  what  it 
was  —  it's  quite  gone  —  quite  gone. 

Tac.  I'm  glad  it's  gone!  —  I  wonder 
where  it's  gone,  and  what  it  was?  Humjjh ! 
Caleb,  come  here  —  who's  that,  with  the 
gray  hair?  {Points  to  stranger.) 

Cal.  I  don't  know,  sir.  Never  seen 
him  before,  in  all  my  life.  A  beautiful 
figure  for  a  nut-cracker  —  quite  a  new 
model  —  with  a  screw  jaw  opening  down 
into  his  waistcoat,  he'd  be  lovely! 

Tac.     Not  ugly  enough. 

Cal.  Or  for  a  firebox,  either  —  what  a 
model!  Unscrew  his  head,  to  put  the 
matches  in  —  turn  him  heels  upward  for 
a  light  —  and  what  a  fire-box  for  a  gentle- 
man's mantel-piece,  just  as  he  stands! 

Tac.  Not  half  ugly  enough!  Come, 
bring  that  box  —  all  right  now,  I  hope! 


The  mystery  increases.  It  is 
evident  that  Dot's  agitation  is 
due  tij  the  presence  of  the 
Stranger,  but  no  hint  is  given 
the  audience  as  to  who  the 
Stranger  is,  or  what  brings 
him  to  Dot's  horne. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 


^33 


Dot  {hurriedly).  Oh!  quite  gone  — 
quite  gone!  —  Good  night! 

Tac.  Good  night!  — •  Good  night,  John 
Perrybingle! 

Joint.  Stop!  —  tliis  good  gentleman 
may  be  glad  of  company  —  I  must  gi\e 
him  a  hint  to  go! 

Stra .  [rises  and  advances  loicard  John) . 
I  beg  your  pardon,  friend  —  the  more  so, 
as  I  fear  your  wife  has  not  been  well  — 
but  the  attendant  whom  m)^  infirmity 
{points  to  /lis  ears)  renders  almost  indis- 
pensable not  having  arrived,  I  fear  there 
must  be  some  mistake.  The  bad  night  is 
still  as  bad  as  ever.  Would  you,  in  j-our 
kindness,  suffer  me  to  rent  a  bed  here? 

Dot  {eagerly).     Yes,  yes,  certainlj'. 

John.  Oh!  well,  I  don't  object;  but 
still,  I'm  not  quite  sure  that 

Dot.     Hush,  dear  John! 

Tac.  Hush!  why,  he's  stone  deaf!  — 
Odd!  {to  JOHN)  isn't  it? 

Dot.  I  know  he  is,  but  —  yes,  sir 
—  certainly  —  there's  the  spare  room, 
and  the  bed  ready  made  up ! 

Tac.  Well,  now  I'm  off!  Good  night, 
John  —  good  night,  Mrs.  Perrybingle! 
Take  care,  Caleb;  let  that  box  fall,  and 
I'll  murder  you! 

Dot  {to  str.anger).  This  way,  sir  — 
this  is  your  room! 

{She  takes  a  candle,  and  beckons  the 
STR.\NGER  lo  an  apartment  at  the 
side.  T.\CKLETON,  xcho  is  going, 
preceded  by  caleb,  turns  back,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  John's  shoulder, 
points  toward  his  wife  and  the 
STR.\NGER.  The  curtain  falls  lo  the 
music  of  the  commencement.) 


Dot's  eagerness  to  have  the 
Stranger  remain  indicates  her 
knowledge  of  his  identity,  and 
the  fact  that  she  conceals  that 
knowledge  from  John  naturally 
creates  sympathy  for  him  in 
the  minds  of  the  audience. 
For  the  playwright  to  reveal  to 
the  audience  the  secret  which 
Dot  has  discovered  would  be 
to  risk  losing  that  sympathy 
which  is  absolutely  essential  in 
order  to  sustain  interest  in  the 
acts  that  follow. 


234  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEAR  J  J/ 

ACT  II. 

Scene. —  The  abode  of  calkb  plummer  — 
a  poor,  half-tumbling  down  interior. 
A  dresser  on  which  some  comma)!, 
brol;en  crockery  is  placed.  The 
room  is  jilled  with  lays  of  all  de- 
scriptions, especially  dolls'  houses 
and  dolls.  There  arc  movable 
sand  toys,  and  musical  carls, 
fiddles,  drums,  weapons,  Noah's 
arks,  horses,  etc.,  etc.  Caleb's 
coat  hung  up.  As  the  curtain  rises 
CALEB  is  discovered  making  a  baby 
house.     He  sings: 

"The  glasses  sparkle  on  the  board, 
The  wine  is  ruby  bright,"  etc.,  etc. 

Ah!  me,  my  voice  seems  to  get  fainter 
and  fainter  every  day.  I'm  often  afraid 
that  my  poor  blind  child  will  perceive  it, 

and  then  I  shall  not  be  able  to  make  her  ^'"'  ''"'''  ^''^  audience  shares. 
believe  that  I  am  still  young  and  hvely  by 
my  songs.  Poor  Bertha !  yet  I  often  think 
her  blindness  may  be  a  blessing.  She 
never  knew  that  the  walls  are  blotched, 
and  bare  of  plaster,  or  that  the  iron 
is  rusting,  the  wood  rotting,  and  the 
iwper  peeling  oil.     If  my  poor  boy  had 

lived  to  come  back  from  the  golden  South       Anticipation,  but  still  very  guard- 
.\mericas,  how  different  it  would  have  ^'^• 

been.  She  knows  not  now  that  Tackleton 
is  a  cold  and  exacting  master.  Poor 
girl,  I  have  made  her  believe  by  a  little 
affectionate  artifice  that  all  his  harsh  and 
unfeeling  reproofs  are  meant  in  joke 
to  enliven  us  —  and  she  thinks  he  is  our 
guardian   angel,   and   she   imagines   her 


)ia.^-4;ij3    liSKj.^^vSHiJcaa 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  237 


poor  old  father  to  be  a  man  still  young 
and  handsome.  Hush!  Caleb,  she  is 
here! 

(Music  —  The  door  opens  —  calkb  rises 
and  goes  toward  it.  bertha  enters 
and  feels  her  icay  to  the  spot  where 
he  was  sitting.     He  takes  her  hand.) 

Cat.     Bertha. 

Ber.  Father.  So  you  were  out  in 
the  rain  last  night  in  your  beautiful  new 
great  coat. 

Cal.  (looking  at  his  coat  and  shrugging 
his  shoulders).  In  my  beautiful  new- 
great  coat. 

Ber.  How  glad  I  am  you  bought  it, 
father. 

Cal.  And  of  such  a  fashionable  tailor, 
too,  it's  too  good  for  me. 

Ber.  Too  good  for  you,  father;  what 
can  be  too  good  for  3'ou? 

Cal.  I'm  half  ashamed  to  wear  it, 
though,  upon  my  word.  When  I  hear 
the  boys  and  people  behind  me  saj-, 
"Holloa!  here's  a  swell!"  I  don't  know 
which  way  to  look.  And  when  the  beggar 
wouldn't  go  away  last  night,  and  when  I 
said  I  was  a  very  common  man,  said, 
"No,  your  honor;  bless  your  honor,  don't 
say  that,"  I  was  quite  ashamed.  I  really 
felt  as  if  I  hadn't  a  right  to  wear  it. 

Ber.  (clapping  her  hands  with  delight). 
1  see  you,  father,  as  plainl}'  as  if  I  had 
the  eyes  I  never  want  when  you  are  with 
me.    A  blue  coat. 

Cal.     Bright  blue. 

Ber.  Yes,  yes;  bright  blue!  the  color 
I  can  just  remember  in  the  blessed  sky. 
.\  bright  blue  coat. 


238  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

Cal.     Made  loose  to  the  figure. 

Btr.  \'cs,  loose  to  the  figure  — 
{laugliiHg)  —  and  in  it  you,  dear  father, 
with  your  merry  eye,  your  smiling  face, 
your  free  step,  and  your  dark  hair, 
looking  so  young  and  handsome  — — 

Cal.  Halloa!—  halloa!  I  shall  be 
vain,  presently. 

Ber.  Not  at  all,  dear  father,  not  at 
all.  But  I  am  idling;  I  can  talk  just  as 
well  whilst  I  am  at  work. 

{Feels    about    for    her    basket,    finds   it, 
and  begins  to  dress  some  dolls.) 

Cal.  {taking  up  the  dolls'  house).  There 
we  are,  as  near  the  real  thing  as  sixpenn- 
'orth  of  halfpence  is  to  sixpence.  What 
a  pity  that  the  whole  front  of  the  house 
opens  at  once.  If  there  was  only  a  stair- 
case in  it,  now,  and  regular  doors  to  the 
rooms  to  go  in  at  —  but  that's  the  worst 
of  my  calling.  I'm  always  deluding  my- 
self and  swindling  myself. 

{1)1  a  loic  tone.) 

Ber.  You  are  speaking  quite  softly; 
3'ou  are  not  tired,  father? 

Cal.  Tired!  What  could  tire  me, 
Bertha?  I  was  never  tired.  What  docs 
it  mean?         {Sings  ivith  forced  energy.) 

"We'll    drown    it    in    a    bowl! 
We'll  drown  it  in  a  bowl,"  etc.,  etc. 

{As  he  is  singing  tackleton  enters.) 

Tac.  What,  you're  singing,  are  you? 
Go  it  —  /  can't  sing  —  I  can't  afford 
it  —  I'm  glad  you  can.  I  hope  you  can 
afford  tn  work,  too.  Hardly  time  for 
both, 1  should  think. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 


239 


Cal.  (to  bertha).  If  you  could  only 
see  him,  Bertha,  how  he's  winking  at  me. 
Such  a  man  to  joke.  You'd  think,  if 
)'ou  didn't  know  Mm,  he  was  in  earnest; 
wouldn't  you,  now? 

(bertha  nods  asseiil.) 

Tac.  The  bird  that  can  sing,  and  won't 
sing,  must  be  made  to  sing,  they  saj'. 
What  about  the  owl  that  can't  sing,  and 
oughtn't  to  sing,  and  will  sing  —  is 
there  anything  that  he  should  be  made 
to  do? 

Cal.  (aside  to  bertha).  The  extent 
to  which  he's  winking  at  this  moment! 
Oh!  mj-  gracious! 

Ber.  Always  merrj'  and  light-hearted 
with  us,  Mr.  Tackleton. 

Tac.  Oh  —  there  you  are,  are  you? 
Poor  idiot !  —  Umph !  —  well  —  and  being 
there,  how  are  you? 

Ber.  Oh!  well  —  quite  well;  as  happy 
as  ever  you  can  wish  me  to  be;  as  hapij\' 
as  you  would  make  the  whole  world  if 
you  could.  (Rising.) 

Tac.  Poor  idiot!  no  gleam  of  reason; 
not  a  gleam. 

(bertha,  who  does  not  hear  him,  ldl;es 
tackleton's  hand  and  presses  it  to 
her  lips.) 

What's  the  matter  now? 

Ber.  1  stood  the  little  plant  you  sent 
me  close  beside  my  pillow  when  I  went 
to  sleep  last  night,  and  remembered  it 
in  mj'  dreams;  and  when  the  day  broke 
and  the  glorious  red  sun  —  father  —  the 
red   sun  — - — 

Cal.  Red  in  the  mornings  and  evenings 
Bertha.     (Aside.)     Poor  thing!    I    must 


Note  the  contrast  between  Tackle- 
ton's  real  character  and  Bertha's 
conception  of  him. 


240  TIIR  CRICKET  O.V   THE  HEARTH 

deceive  her  still,  lo  make  her  In'licve  he 
is  less  harsh  and  cold. 

Ber.  When  the  sun  rose,  and  the 
bright  light  —  I  almost  fear  to  strike 
myself  against  it  in  walking  —  came  into 
the  room,  I  turned  the  little  plant  toward 
it,  and  blessed  Heaven  for  making  things 
so  precious,  and  blessed  you  for  sending 
them  to  cheer  me. 

Tac.  {aside).  Bedlam  broke  loose! 
\\'e  shall  arrive  at  the  straight  waistcoat 
and  mufflers  soon;  we're  getting  on.  Ugh! 
Bertha,  come  here.  Shall  I  tell  you  a 
secret? 

Ber.     If  you  will. 

Tac.  This  is  the  day  on  which  little 
What's  her-name  —  the  spoiled  child  — 
Perrybingle's  wife  paj-s  her  regular  visit 
to  you  —  makes  her  fantastic  picnic  here 
— isn't  it? 

Ber.     Yes;  this  is  the  day. 

Tac.  I  thought  so;  I  should  like  to 
join  the  partj-. 

Ber.  {gladly).  Do  you  hear  that,  father? 

Cal.  Yes,  yes,  I  hear  it,  but  I  don't 
believe  it.  It's  one  of  my  lies,  no 
doubt. 

Tac.  You  see,  I  want  to  bring  the 
Perrybingles  a  little  more  into  company 
with  ]\Iay  Fielding.  I  am  going  to  be 
married  to  Maj*. 

Ber.     Married! 

Tac.  {muttering).  She's  such  a  con- 
founded idiot  that  I  was  afraid  she'd 
never  comprehend  me.  {Aloud.)  Yes; 
married!  —  church,  parson,  clerk,  beadle, 
glass  coach,  bells,  breakfast,  bridecake, 
favors,  marrowbones,  cleavers,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  tomfoolery.     A  wedding, 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  241 


you  know;  a  wedding!  Don't  you  know 
what  a  wedding  is? 

Bcr.     I  know;  I  unck'rsland. 

Tac.  Do  you?  It's  more  than  1  ex- 
pected. Well,  I  want  to  join  the  party, 
and  to  bring  May  and  her  mother.  I'll 
send  in  a  little  something  or  other  be- 
fore the  afternoon;  a  cold  leg  of  mutton, 
or  some  comfortable  Irifle  of  tliat  sort. 
You'll  expect  me. 

Bcr.  Yes.  {Tunis  au'oy,  and  her 
head  droops.) 

Tac.  I  don't  think  you  will,  for  you 
seem  to  have  forgotten  all  about  it 
already.     Caleb! 

Cal.  {to  himself).  I  may  venture  to 
say  I'm  here,  I  suppose.  {Aloud.)     Sir! 

Tac.  Take  care  she  don't  forget  what 
I've  been  saying  to  her. 

Cal.  She  never  forgets.  It's  one  of 
the  few  things  she  ain't  clever  in. 

Tac.  Every  man  thinks  his  own  geese 
swans.  Well,  good-l)ve!  — ■  umph!  — 
poor  devil!  {E.rit.) 

Cal.  {lo  himself,  taking  up  a  toy 
■wagon  and  horses,  which  he  proceeds  to 
put  harness  on).  Phew!  I'm  glad  he's 
gone.  {Sings.)  "The  glasses  sparkle," 
etc. 

Ber.  {puts  her  hand  on  his  shoulder). 
Father,  I  am  lonely  in  the  dark;  I  want 
my  eyes  —  my  patient,  willing  eyes. 

Cal.  Here  they  are;  always.  They 
are  more  yours  than  mine.  Bertha.  What 
shall  your  eyes  do  for  you,  dear? 

Ber.     Look  round  the  room,  father. 

Cal.  All  right;  no  sooner  said  than 
done.  Bertha. 

Ber.     Tell  me  about  it. 


Observe  the  result  of  Caleb's  de- 
ception. 


242 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 


Cal.  It's  much  the  sanu'  as  usual; 
homely,  but  very  snug.  The  gay  colors 
on  the  walls  —  the  bright  (lowers  on  the 
plates  and  dishes  —  the  shining  wood, 
where  there  are  beams  and  panels  —  the 
general  cheerfulness  and  neatness  of  the 
building  make  it  very  pretty. 

Bcr.     You  have  your  working  dress  on 

—  and  are  not  so  gallant  as  when  you 
wear    the    handsome    coat! 

{Touches  him.) 

Cal.  Not  quite  so  gallant.  Pretty 
brisk,  though! 

Ber.  {pulling  her  hand  around  his 
neck).  Father,  tell  me  something  about 
May  —  she  is  very  beautiful? 

Cal.     She  is,  indeed. 

Ber.  Her  hair  is  dark  —  darker  than 
mine.  Her  voice  is  sweet  and  musical, 
I  know.  I  have  often  loved  to  hear  it. 
Her    shape 

Cal.  There's  not  a  doll's  in  all  the 
room  to  equal  it;  and  her  eyes. 

Ber.  {sadly).     Her  eyes,  father 

{Hides  her  face,  and  head  sinks  on  his  arm.) 

Cal.  {aside).  Fool  thati  was!  (5/h^5.) 
"We'll  drown  it  in  a  bowl ! " 

Ber.  But  Mr.  Tackleton  —  our  kind, 
noble  friend,  father  —  he's  older  than 
May? 

Cal.  {hesitating).  Y-e-e-es — he's  a  little 
older,  but  that  don't  signify  ■ ■ 

Bcr.  Oh!  father,  yes!|  To  be  his 
patient  companion  in  infirmity  and  age 

—  to  be  his  gentle  nurse  in  sickness,  and 
his  constant  friend  in  suffering  and  sorrow 

—  to  sit  beside  his  bed,  and  talk  to  him 
awake,  and  pray  for  him  aslcc]) !  Would 
she  do  all  this,  dear  father? 


Compare  Caleb's  description  with 
the  description  of  the  stage  set- 
ting at  the  beginning  of  Act  II. 


THE  CRICKET  UN  THE  HEARTH 


243 


Cal.     No  doubt  of  il! 

Ber.  I  love  her,  father;  I  can  love 
her  from  my  soul. 

{Clings  to  him  and  is  ajfcclcd.) 

Cal.  Come,  Bertha  —  cheerily!  chcer- 
il\-!  I  declare,  all  the  dolls  are  starinj^ 
at  us  as  if  they  were  mad  with  hunger,  to 
remind  us  that  our  company  will  be  here 
soon.  Come,  Bertha  —  let  us  go  and 
see  about  the  potatoes  in  that  handsome 
wooden  bowl  that  is  so  beautiful  to  look 
at  —  come,  come! 

{Music  —  They  exeunt  at  R.  The  tunc 
changes  to  "Gee  ho,  Dobbin!'''  and 
the  door  opens.  Enter  mrs.  ferry- 
BiNGLE,  carrying  all  sorts  of  parcels, 
followed  by  john,  doing  the  same  — 
and  lastly,  tilly  carrying  the  baby.) 

Dot.  Nobody  here  to  receive  us  — 
and  nobody  come  yet!  Never  mind; 
we're   not   proud,   John,    are   we? 

{Undoing     bonnet,     etc.) 

John.  Well,  I  don't  know,  Dot;  I'm 
proud  of  you  when  you're  admired, 
knowing  that  3'ou  don't  mind  it. 

{Pulling   ojf    great   coat.) 

Dot.     Now,   John 

John.  In  fact,  that  you  rather  like 
it,  perhaps. 

Dot.  Now,  hush,  John!  I'm  sure  I'm 
only  proud  of  our  cart;  and  who  wouldn't 
be?  and  Boxer. 

John.  And  just  getting  into  the  cart 
—  the  legs,  Dot,  eh? 

Dot.  Now,  John,  how  can  you! 
Think  of  Tilly.  And  are  you  sure  you've 
got  the  basket  with  the  veal,  and  ham 
pie,    and    things  —  and    the    bottles   of 


In  the  case  of  Caleb's  deception 
the  sympathy  of  the  audience 
is  better  secured  by  a  complete 
understanding  of  the  situation. 


244  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

beer?     Hccausc  if  _v()u  haven't,  we  iiiiisl 
go  back. 

John.  You're  a  nice  little  article,  to 
talic  about  going  back  when  you  kei)t 
me  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  time! 
They're  all  right! 

Dot.  I  declare  I  wouldn't  come  without 
the  veal  and  ham  pie,  and  things,  and  the 
bottles  of  beer,  for  any  money!  Regu- 
larly, once  a  fortnight,  since  we  have  been 
married,  John,  we've  made  our  little 
picnic  here.  If  anything  were  to  go 
wrong  with  it,  I  should  almost  think  we 
were  never  going  to  be  lucky  again! 

John.  It  was  a  kind  thought,  in  the 
first  instance,  and  I  honor  you  for  it, 
little  woman. 

Dot.  My  dear  John!  don't  talk  of  hon- 
oring me  —  my  gracious ! 

John.  By  the  by  —  that  old  gentle- 
man —  he's  an  odd  fish  —  I  can't  make 
him  out  —  I  don't  believe  there's  any 
harm  in  him. 

Dot.  Not  at  all  —  I'm  sure  there's  none 
at  all. 

John  {with  meaning).  I'm  glad  you 
feel  so  certain  —  because  it's  a  confirma- 
tion to  me.  It's  curious  he  should  ha\c 
taken  it  into  his  head  to  ask  leave  to  go  on 
lodging  with  us,  ain't  it?  Things  come 
about  so  strangely. 

Dot  {almost  aside).     So  very  strangelw 

John.      However,   he's  a  good  natured        The  mystery  increases,  and  still 
old  gentleman  and  pays  as  a  gentleman, 
doesn't  he?     Why,  Dot!  what  are  you 
thinking  about? 

Dot  {starting).  Thinking  of,  John! 
I  —  I  was  listening  to  you. 

John.     Oh!    that's    all    right.     I    was 


John  is  unsuspicious. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  245 


afraid  from  the  look  of  your  face  I  had 
set  you  thinking  about  something  else. 

Dot.  Oh!  no,  John,  no!  But  here 
comes  Caleb  and  Bertha !  now  they  shall 
help  us  put  the  veal  and  ham  pie  and 
things,  and  bottles  of  beer,  all  in  order! 

(Enter  Caleb  and  bertha,  R.) 

Cal.  Halloa,  John!  here  you  are  then! 
and  missus,  too.     How  d'\'e  do,  mum? 

Ber.     (going  to  dot).     Dear  Mary! 

Cal.  The  rest  of  the  company  will 
be  here  directl3\  The  potatoes  is  all 
right  —  you  never  see  such  picturs  —  I 
don't  think  I  could  make  any  half  so 
natural,  not  if  dolls  wouldn't  have  nothing 
else  in  their  kitchens.  Ah!  (A  knock.) 
There's  May  and  her  mother,  and  Gruff 
&TackletonI     Come  in  —  come  in! 

(Enter  tackleton  with  may  fielding  on 
one  arm,  and  mrs.  fielding  on  the 
other,  wearing  a  calash  over  her  cap, 
which  is  very  fine,  tackleton  is 
carrying  a  parcel,  caleb  receives 
them   a-a'kwardly.) 

Tac.  Well,  we're  come.  I  can't  sup- 
pose you  wanted  me  much,  though. 

Dot  (going  to  may).  May!  my  dear 
old  friend!  what  a  happiness  to  see 
you! 

(They  embrace.) 

Tac.  Ah!  that's  it  —  women  always 
are  so  deuced  affectionate  before  people 
—  it's  all  trick  —  only  to  make  us  envious 
don't  you  think  so,  Perrybingle? 

John.  No,  I  don't!  I  call  that  as 
pleasant  a  sight  as  a  man  might  see  in  a 
long    day.     Their    faces    ciuite    set    one 


246  THE  CRICK KT  OX  THE  HEARTH 

anolhcr's  off.     They  ought  to  ha\e  been 
horn  sisters. 

May  {to  bertha).  And  are  \()u  (juite 
well  and  happy,  Bertha? 

Ber.  Quite,  dear  May!  How  can  I 
be  otherwise  when  you  are  here? 

Cal.  Bless  me!  I'm  quite  nervous; 
I  feel  as  if  somebody  was  pulling  a  string 
and  making  me  jump  all  ways  at  once. 
I'll  go  and  get  the  potatoes.     (Exit  R.) 

Tac.  There,  there's  a  leg  of  mutton. 
{Puis  it  on  table.)  And  there's  a  tart. 
.\h!  you  may  stare,  but  we  don't  mind  a 
little  dissipation  when  our  brides  are 
in  the  case.  I  haven't  been  married  a 
year,  you  know,  John. 

Dot  {aside).     Spiteful  creature. 
John.     Come,    let    us    begin    dinner. 
{Placing    the    chairs.)     You    have    not 
driven  along  the  road  three  or  four  miles; 
I'm  hungry. 

Cal.  {enters  ivilh  a  bold  of  smoki>ig 
potatoes,  R.)  You  shan't  be  long,  John, 
you  shan't  be  long.  There  they  are  — 
look  at  'em  —  it's  almost  a  shame  to  eat 
'em.  Now,  sit  down,  sit  down.  You 
there,  mum,  if  you  please — {To  mrs. 
FIELDING.) —  and  you  there  —  {To  t.\c- 
KLETON.)  Perhaps,  too,  sir,  you'd  like 
May  next  you  —  it's  natural  you  should. 
And,  Mrs.  Perrybingle,  you'll  go  to  the 
side  of  your  old  friend,  John  here;  and 
Bertha  next  to  me.  There  we  are,  beau- 
tiful! 

Dot.  Oh!  how  comfortable  this  is! 
It  seems  but  yesterday,  Ma^-,  that  we 
were  at  school;  and  now  to  think  you  are 
quite  a  woman  grown! 

May.     And  you,  Dot  —  married! 


i&.-v^'aniJ   '^v.\ii.a,i';t*:;i-a» 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  249 


John.     Yes;  and  got  a  baby! 

Dol.     Now,  John! 

John.  Well!  is  it  anything  to  be 
ashamed  of?     I  always  thought 

Dot  {Interrupting  him).  You  dear, 
good,  awkward  John;  there,  take  some 
pie,  and  there's  a  nice  bit  of  egg! 
And  now  don't  talk  with  your  mouth 
full! 

Cal.  But  you,  May;  you  don't  eat 
anything. 

Dol.  Oh!  Ma\'s  in  love,  you  know, 
Caleb;  and  people  in  lo\-e  are  never 
hungry.  Bless  you,  it  wouldn't  be  proper; 
I  never  was. 

Tac.  Perhaps  you  were  never  in  love. 
Ha!  ha! 

Dol  {imitating  his  hollow  laugh).  Ha! 
ha!  what  a  funny  man  you  are.  {Aside.) 
He  looks  about  as  much  in  his  own  ele- 
ment as  a  fresh  young  salmon  on  the  top 
of  the  pyramid! 

Mrs.  F.  {gravely).  Ah!  girls  are  girls, 
and  bygones  bygones;  and  as  long  as  young 
people  are  young  and  thoughtless,  they'll 
behave  as  young  and  thoughtless  people 
do. 

Dot.  Dear  May.  to  talk  of  those  merry 
school-days  makes  one  young  again. 

Tac.  Wh}'  you  ain't  particularly  old 
at  any  time,  are  3'ou? 

Dot.     Look  at  my  sober,  plodding  hus- 
band, there.     He  adds  twenty  years  to 
my  age,  at  least;  don't  )'ou,  John? 
John.     Forty! 

Dot.  How  manj^  you'll  add  to  May's 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know;  but  she  can't  be 
less  than  a  hundred  years  of  age  on  her 
next  birthday. 


THE  CRICKET  OX   THE  HEARTH 


Tac.  Ha!  ha!  (Aside.)  I  could  twist 
her  neck  like  a  sparrow's. 

Dol.  Dear,  dear,  only  to  remember  how 
we  used  to  talk  at  school  about  the  hus- 
bands we  should  choose.  I  don't  know 
how  handsome  and  young,  and  how  ga}' 
and  how  lively  mine  was  to  be.  And  as 
to  May's;  oh!  dear:  I  don't  know  whether 
to  laugh  or  cry,  when  I  think  what 
sill}-  girls  we  were. 

Tac.  Ah!  you  couldn't  help  your- 
selves; for  all  that  you  couldn't  resist 
us,  you  see.  Here  we  are!  here  we  are! 
Where  are  your  gay  young  bridegrooms 
now? 

Dot.  Some  of  them  are  dead,  and 
some  of  them  forgotten.  Some  of  them, 
if  they  could  stand  among  us  at  this 
moment,  would  not  believe  we  were  the 
same  creatures,  or  that  we  could  forget 
them  so.  No,  no,  they  would  not  believe 
one  word  of  it. 

John.  Why,  Dot,  little  woman,  what 
arc  }-ou  thinking  of?  Come,  come,  I 
think  we  are  slighting  the  bottled  beer. 
I'll  give  a  toast.  "Here's  to  to-morrow 
(l/iey  pass  the  beer  around)  the  wedding- 
day;"  and  we'll  drink  a  bumper  to  it. 

Cal.     Yes,  the  wedding-day. 

All.     The  wedding-day;  the  wedding- 
day. 
(bertha  gets  up  and  leaves  the  table.) 

John.  Well,  this  is  all  very  well;  but 
I  must  be  stirring.  I  have  got  several 
parcels  to  deliver  now. 

Cal.     But  you  won't  be  long,  John? 
John.     Oh!  no;  the  old  horse  has  had  a 
bait  as  well  as  myself,  and  we  shall  soon 
get  over  the  ground. 


The  audience  not  only  under- 
stand how  Caleb  has  deceived 
Bertha,  but  they  see  what 
Caleb  has  not  yet  seen;  namely, 
that  the  result  of  his  deception 
in  regard  to  Tackleton  has  led 
Bertha  to  love  the  unworthy 
toy  merchant. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  251 


Cal.     Well,  good-bye,  John. 

John.  Good-bye  —  good-bye,  all! 
{To  baby.)  Good-bye,  young  shaver. 
Time  will  come,  I  suppose,  when  you'll 
turn  out  into  the  cold,  my  little  friend, 
and  leave  your  old  father  to  enjoy  his 
pipe  and  his  rheumatics  in  the  chimney- 
corner  —  eh!  Where's  Dot? 

Dot     {starting).     I'm  here,  John. 

John  {claps  his  hands).  Come,  come, 
Where's  the  pipe? 

Dot.  I  forgot  the  pipe,  John.  I'll  fill 
it  directly. 

{Takes  the  pipe  from  his  coat.) 

John.  Forgot  the  pipe!  Was  such 
a  wonder  ever  heard  of?  Why,  what  a 
clumsy  Dot  you  are  this  afternoon. 
I  could  have  done  it  better  myself,  I 
verilj'  believe. 

Tac.  I'll  go  with  you,  John  Perry- 
bingle,  a  little  way  if  j'ou'll  take  me. 
I've  got  to  go  down  the  town. 

John.  Oh!  wiUingly,  willingly!  Good- 
bye, Caleb;  good-bye,  all!  I  shall  be 
back  very  soon. 

All.     Good  bye,  John! 

{Exeunt  john  and  tackleton.) 

Dot.  And  now,  TiUy,  bring  me  the 
precious  baby  —  and  whilst  you  help 
IMay  put  the  things  to  rights,  and  do 
everything  she  tells  you,  I  shall  sit  with 
Mrs.  Fielding  at  the  fire. 

Mrs.  F.  I  should  have  sat  by  iire- 
placesofavery  different  kind  if  people  had 
done  by  other  people  as  the  first  people 
ought  to  do,  especially  in  the  Indigo  trade. 

Dot  {shaking  her  liead).  Ah,  I'm 
sure  you  would. 


rilE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 


Mrs.  F.  Hut  when  a  friend  asks  any 
one  to  befriend  that  friend's  friend,  and 
the  friend's  friend  does  not  act  as  siicli, 
we  must  put  u])  with  what  other  friends 
have  to  offer  us. 

Dot.  Yes,  it's  very  true,  ma'am.  Hut 
now  {pushing  a  chair)  sit  down  here,  and 
while  baby  is  in  my  lap,  perhaps  \ou  will 
tell  me  how  to  manage  it,  and  put  me 
right  upon  twenty  points  where  I  am  as 
wrong  as  can  be.  Won't  you,  Mrs. 
Fielding? 

Mrs.  F.  I  see  no  objection;  al- 
though before  that  occurrence  with  the 
Indigo,  which  I  always  thought  would 
happen  and  told  Mr.  F.  so  often,  but  he 
wouldn't  believe  me,  I  never  managed  my 
babies  at  all,  but  had  proper  persons, 
whom  we  paid.  ]My  husband  was  quite 
enough  for  me  to  manage. 

Dol.     Ah,  I  should  think  so. 

(dot  seats  herself  upon  a  stool  with  baby, 
near  the  fire,  and  close  to  mrs.  field- 
ing. MAY  and  TILLY  are  putting  the 
room  to  rights.  Caleb  and  bertha 
coine  forward.) 

Cal.  Bertha,  what  has  happened? 
How  changed  you  are  my  darling,  and  in 
so  short  a  time.  What  is  it?  Tell 
me. 

Bcr.  (bursts  into  tears).  Oh!  father 
—  father  —  my  hard,  hard  fate! 

Cal.  But  think  how  cheerful,  and 
how  happy  you  have  been.  Bertha! 
How  good  and  how  much  loved  by  many 
people,  although  I  know,  to  be  —  to  be 
blind,  is  a  great  affliction  —  but  ■ 

Ber.     I  have  never  felt  it  in  its  fulness. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  253 

Oh!  my  good,  gentle  father,  bear  with 
me,  if  I  am  wicked.  This  is  not  the 
sorrow  that  so  weighs  me  down. 

Cal.  {aside).  I  cannot  understand 
her.     What  does  this  mean? 

Ber.  Bring  her  to  me.  May  —  bring 
May.  (may,  hearing  it,  comes  toward 
her  and  touches  Iter  arm.  bertha  seizes 
her  by  the  hands.)  Look  into  my  face, 
dear  heart,  sweet  heart!  Read  it  with 
your  beautiful  eyes,  and  tell  me  if  truth 
is  written  on  it? 

May.     Dear  Bertha,  yes. 

Ber.  There  is  not  in  my  soul  a  wish, 
or  thought,  that  is  not  for  your  good, 
bright  May.  Every  blessing  on  your 
head  light  upon  your  happy  course!  not 
the  less,  my  dear  May  —  not  the  less, 
my  bird  —  because,  to-day,  the  knowl- 
edge that  you  are  to  be  his  wife  has 
wrung  my  heart  almost  to  breaking. 

Cal.  Is  it  possible  —  she  loves  him, 
then  — -  Tackleton! 

Ber.  Father  —  May  —  Mary !  Oh !  for- 
give me  that  it  is  so,  for  the  sake  of  all 
he  has  done  to  relieve  the  weariness  of  my 
dark  life,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  belief 
you  have  in  me,  when  I  call  Heaven  to 
witness  that  I  could  not  wish  him  married 
to  a  wife  more  worthy  of  his  goodness. 

Cal.     Gracious  Heaven!  is  it  possible!       An  ironical  situation:  Caleb's  de- 
_^  -r    ,       .       ,  ,         r  1  ,,  ception  defeats  its  own  end. 

Have  1  deceived  her  from  her  cradle  to 

break  her  heart  at  last! 

Dot     {who  has  been  listening,  advances). 

Come,   come,  dear  Bertha!   come  away 

with  me.     Give  her  your  arm.  May  —  so! 

—  how  composed  she  is,  you  see,  already, 

and  how  good  it  is  of  her  to  mind  us. 

{Kisses  her.)     There,   dear  —  come  and 


254  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  11  EARTH 

siL  by  us.     Stop;  1  hear  some  footsteps 
I  know. 

Ber.   {starts).     Whose  —  step  is  that? 

Cat.     Whose  —  why,  it's  John's. 

{Enter  JOHN.) 

Dot.  \\'hy,  John  —  how  soon  j'ou 
ha\e  returned. 

John.  Well  —  ain't  you  glad  of  it, 
Dot !  I  met  young  Hobbins  in  the  street, 
and  he  is  going  to  take  the  cart  on,  and 
call  for  us  on  his  way  back. 

Bcr.  But  whose  is  the  other's  step 
—  that  of  a  man's  —  behind  you? 

Cat.     She's  not  to  be  deceived. 

John.  Why,  who  should  I  overtake, 
but  our  old  deaf  gentleman,  who'd  been 
up  town  to  buy  some  things;  so  I  brought 
him  along  with  me.  Come  along,  sir, 
you'll  be  welcome,  never  fear!  —  {The 
STR.\NGER  enters.) —  He's  not  so  much  a 
stranger  that  you  haven't  seen  him  once, 
Caleb.  You'll  give  him  house-room  till 
we  go? 

Cal.  Oh!  surely,  John;  and  take  it  as 
an  honor. 

John.  He's  the  best  company  on  earth 
to  talk  secrets  in.  I  have  reasonable 
good  lungs,  but  he  tries  'em,  I  can  tell 
you.  Sit  down,  sir.  All  friends  here, 
and  glad  to  see  you. 

Cal.  What  can  we  do  to  entertain 
him,  John? 

John.  Oh!  nothing!  A  chair  in  the 
corner,  and  leave  to  sit  quite  silent  and 
look  pleasantly  about  him,  is  all  he  cares 
for.  He's  easily  pleased.  {Leads  the 
STRANGER  to  a  chair,  bertha  and  may 
arc  talking;  so  also,  dot  and  mrs.  field- 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  255 


ING  —  lo  DOT.)  A  clumsy  Dot  she  was, 
this  afternoon;  and  yet  I  Hke  her,  some- 
how.    See  yonder.  Dot! 

{Points       to       STRANGER.) 

Dot.  Well,  John  {confused),  what  is 
there,  there?  {Aside.)  Can  he  sus- 
pect anything? 

John.  He's  —  Ha,  ha,  ha!  he's  full  of 
admiration  for  you!  talks  of  nobody  else. 

Dot.  I  wish  he  had  a  better  subject, 
John. 

John.  A  better  subject:  there's  no 
such  thing;  come  off  with  the  heavy  wrap- 
pers and  a  cozy  half  hour  by  the  fire. 
{To  MRS.  FIELDING.)  My  humblc  service, 
mistress.  A  game  at  cribbage,  you  and  I? 
That's  heart)':  the  cards  and  board,  Dot. 
And  a  glass  of  beer  here,  if  there's  any 
left,  small  wife. 

Dot.     Yes,  John,  plenty! 
(may  arranges  the  table  and  cards,  -d'hilst 
DOT  gels  the  beer.) 

(tackleton     enters    al     the    door.) 

Mrs.  F.  That's  quite  right,  my  dear! 
Thank  Heaven,  I  have  always  found  May 
a  dutiful  child,  though  I  say  it,  that 
ought  not,  and  an  excellent  wife  she  will 
make. 

Tac.     Well,  I  don't  doubt  that. 

Mrs.  F.  And  with  regard  to  our 
family,  though  we  are  reduced  in  purse  — 
I  don't  say  this,  sir,  out  of  regard  to 
what  we  are  to  play  for  —  but  though 
we  are  reduced  in  purse,  we  have  always 
had  some  pretentions  to  gentility. 

John.  Which  nobody  doubts,  who 
knows  you,  mum,  or  May  either.  There's 
a   good   Dot.     (dot   brings  beer.)     And 


256 


77/A'  CRICKIT  OX   THE  IIIIARTII 


now  \vc  will  cul  for  deal.  {Cuts.) 
Seven ! 

Mrs.     F.     Nine! 

./()//;/.  Ah  I  you  arc  fortunate,  mis- 
tress. 

{The  STRANGER,  icho  has  been  exchanging 
looks  with  DOT,  gets  up,  uii perceived, 
and  goes  toward  door,  L.  dot  ap- 
pears an.xious  to  folloiv  him,  as  he 
beckons  to  her.  This  is  through  the 
dialogue.) 

Mrs.  /•".  Well,  I  will  go  to  say  that 
if  the  Indigo  trade  had  turned  out  dif- 
ferent, which,  however,  is  not  a  pleasant 
subject  to  allude  to,  we  might  have  been 
lucky. 

Joh>i.  Well,  here  goes.  {Deals.)  Now, 
I  wonder  what  my  fortune  will  be  to- 
night. Hum!  {Takes  his  cards.)  What 
ought  I  to  throw  out?     Here,  Dot,  Dot. 

(dot  is  about  to  folloiv  the  stranger, 
idio  is  gone  out,  she  starts  at  John's 
voice,  and  turns  back.) 

What  would  you  do,  Dot? 

Dot     {alarmed).     I,  John;  nothing. 

John.  Pshaw!  you?  No,  the  cards 
—  which  shall  I  throw  out?  (dot  takes 
out  the  cards  and  throics  them  doicn.) 
There,  little  woman,  that  will  do.  I 
won't  call  you  away  from  May  again. 

(dot  retires.     The  others,  except  tackle- 
ton,  icho  watches  her,  gather  round.) 

Mrs.     F.     I  play,  I  think. 

{.\fusic  —  During  the  game  dot  has  taken 
a  candle  from  the  table,  timidly, 
and  followed  the  stranger.     The 


The  sympathy  of  the  audience 
lor  Jolm  is  still  further  in- 
creased by  tcivinK  them  glimpses 
of  the  conduct  of  Dot  and  the 
Stranger  which  John  dcjes  not 
have,  but  it  is  to  be  noted  that 
these  glimpses  are  not  of  the 
real  situation,  but  of  actions 
which  may  well  be  construed 
as  evidence  of  Dot's  infidel- 
ity. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 


257 


lighi  is  seen  directly  afterward  be- 
hind the  blind  of  the  large  win- 
dow. When  it  becomes  stationary, 
TACKLETON  advances  and  lays  his 
hand  upon  John's  shoulder.) 

Tac.  I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you,  but  a 
word  immediately. 

John.     I'm  going  to  deal!  it's  a  crisis. 

Tac.     It  is,  come  here,  man,  come. 

John  {rising  and  alarmed).  What  do 
you  mean? 

Tac.  {leading  him  from  the  cards). 
Hush,  John  Perrybingle;  I'm  sorry  for 
this;  I  am,  indeed!  I  have  been  afraid  of 
it;  I  have  suspected  it  from  the  first. 

John.    What  is  it? 

Tac.  Hush.  I'll  show  you.  Can  you 
bear  to  look  through  that  window  do 
you  think? 

John.     Why  not?  {Advancing.) 

Tac.  A  moment  more.  Don't  com- 
mit any  violence:  it's  of  no  use.  It's 
dangerous,  too.  You're  a  strong  made 
man;  and  you  might  do  murder  before 
you  know  it. 

John.  What  do  you  mean,  I  say? 
Stand  on  one  side. 

(JOHN  puts  TACKLETON  back,  and  advanc- 
ing to  the  window,  draws  back  the 
blind.  The  window  looks  into  a 
warehouse,  now  lighted,  in  which  are 
seen  dot  and  the  stranger,  as  a 
young  man,  with  his  arm  aroujul  her 
waist  —  she  takes  his  'white  wig,  a>id 
laughs,  as  she  puts  it  on  his  head.) 

John.  What  do  I  see!  Dot!  Mary! 
faithless!  Yes,  she  adjusts  the  lie  upon 
his  head,  and  laughs  at  me,  as  she  does  it! 


The  audience  now  see  only  what 
John  sees.  They  are  thus 
identified  with  him,  and  have 
no  more  knowledge  of  the 
true  state  of  affairs  than  he 
has  himself. 


2S8 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 


{Wildly.)  May  this  hand  have  power 
enough  to  dash  them  to  the  earth  —  but, 
no  —  I  cannot  —  she  was  my  wife  — 
gone!  lost  forever! 

{lie  falls  upon  the  ground.  As  the  others 
gather  round  him,  tackleton  draws 
the  curtain.    Tableau. 

ACT  III. 

Scene. —  Same  as  for  Act  I.  The  interior 
of  JOHN  perrybingle's  cottage.  As 
the  curtain  rises  slowly  to  plaintive 
music,  JOHN  is  discovered,  sitting  by 
the  fireplace,  with  his  head  upon 
his  hands,  R. 


John.  I  have  sat  here  through  the 
long,  long  night,  until  the  stars  grew  pale, 
and  the  cold  day  broke  —  and  the  more 
I  have  thought  about  her  the  more  I 
feel  how  desolate  I  am  become  —  how 
totally  the  great  bond  of  my  life  is  rent 
asunder.  {Music,  dot  enters  mourn- 
fully, and  sits  down  on  the  little  stool  at  his 
feet.  He  is  about  to  kiss  her,  but  recol- 
lecting what  has  occurred,  he  reclines  his 
head  upon  the  table,  hiding  his  face  with 
his  hands,  dot  goes  out,  expressing 
great  anxiety.)  And  he  is  still  beneath 
my  roof!  —  the  lover  of  her  early  choice; 
of  whom  she  has  thought  and  dreamed; 
for  whom  she  has  pined  and  pined,  when 
I  fancied  her  so  happy  by  my  side.  Oh ! 
agony,  to  think  of  it!  {He  sees  the  gun 
hanging  on  the  wall.)  What  monstrous 
demon  hastakenpossessionof  my  thoughts 
and  now  whispers  to  me,  that  it  is  just 
to  shoot  this  man  as  I  would  a  wild  beast. 


For  the  audience  to  lose  sympathy 
with  Perrybingle  during  the 
pathetic  passages  of  this  act 
would  be  fatal,  and  a  complete 
understanding  of  the  motives 
underlying  Dot's  conduct  might 
conceivably  cause  the  audience 
to  be  a  bit  out  of  patience  with 
John  for  his  readiness  to  be- 
lieve in  Dot's  faithlessness. 
Thus,  the  law  that  the  audience 
must  never  be  deceived  is  de- 
liberately violated  in  order  to 
conform  to  the  fundamental 
law  that  interest  and  sympathy 
should  be  sustained  at  any 
cost. 


«^a^^-aDK   ai'3ira:na 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  261 


A  step  will  bring  me  to  his  side.  I  can 
kill  him  —  kill  him  in  his  bed!  {Takes 
down  the  gun.)  It  is  loaded  —  I  know 
that;  and  again  the  demon  has  changed 
my  thoughts  to  scourges,  to  urge  me 
on.     I  will  kill  him  —  here  in  his  bed. 

{As  he  speaks,  the  fire,  which  was  before 
nearly  extinguished,  burns  up,  and 
the  CRICKET  is  heard.  Music. 
He  stops  and  listens  for  an  instant 
—  then  speaks  through  the  music.) 

The  cricket  on  the  hearth!  {puts  down 
gun)  that  she  so  loved  —  and  told  me  so 
with  her  pleasant  voice.  Oh!  what  a 
voice  it  was  for  making  household  music 
at  the  fireside  of  an  honest  man  —  and 
she  is  nothing  now  to  me  —  her  love  is 
another's  —  another's! 

{He  bursts  into  tears,  and  sits  down  again 
by  the  fireside,  R.  Pause;  music 
continues.) 

(A  knocking  —  john  starts.)  Who  is 
that?     {Knocking    repealed.)     Come    in. 

{Enter  tackleton.) 

Tac.  John  Perrybingle,  my  good  fel- 
low, how  do  you  find  yourself  this  morn- 
ing? 

John.  I  have  had  a  poor  night,  master 
Tackleton,  for  I  have  been  a  good  deal 
disturbed  in  my  mind;  but  it's  over  now. 
I  wish  to  speak  a  word  or  two  with  you. 

{Enter  tilly  at  D.  R.  and  knock  at  D.  L.) 

You  are  not  married  before  noon. 
Tac.    No,  plenty  of  time  —  plenty  of 
time. 

Til.      Ow!  If  you  please  I  can't  make 


262  THE  CRICKET  OX  THE  HEARTH 

nobody  hear.     I  hope  nobody  ain't  gone 
and  been  and  died,  if  you  j^lease. 

(She  knocks  at  the  stranger's  door,  and 
then  exits  D.  R.) 

Tac.  John  Perrybingle,  I  hope  there 
has  been  nothing  —  nothing  rash  in  the 
night ! 

John.     What  do  you  mean? 

Tac.  Because  as  I  came  here  I  looked 
into  the  window  of  that  room.  It  was 
empty,  and  he  was  gone.  There  has 
been  no  scufSe,  eh? 

John.  Make  yourself  easy.  He  went 
into  that  room  last  night  without  word 
or  harm  from  me,  and  nobody  has  entered 
it  since. 

Tac.  Oh!  well;  I  think  he  has  got  off 
pretty  easily. 

John.  Look  ye,  master  Tackleton,  you 
showed  me  last  night  my  wife  —  my 
wife  that  I  love,  secretly. 

Tac.     And  tenderly. 

John.  Conniving  at  that  man's  dis- 
guise, and  giving  him  opportunities  of 
meeting  her  alone.  I  think  there's  no 
sight  I  wouldn't  rather  have  seen  than 
that.  I  think  there's  no  man  in  the 
world  I  wouldn't  have  rather  had  to 
show  it  me. 

Toe.  I  confess  to  having  had  my 
suspicions  always;  and  that  has  made 
me  objectionable  here,  I  know. 

John.  But  as  you  did  show  it  me,  and 
as  you  saw  her  —  my  wife  —  my  wife  — 
that  I  love,  at  this  disadvantage,  it  is 
right  and  just  that  you  should  also  see 
with  my  eyes,  and  look  into  my  breast, 
and  know  what  my  mind  is  upon   the 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  263 


subject,  for  it's  settled,  and  nothing  can 
shake  it  now. 

Tac.  Go  on,  John  Perrybingle,  I'll 
listen  to  you. 

John.  I  am  a  plain,  rough  man,  with 
very  little  to  recommend  me.  I  am  not 
a  clever  man,  as  you  very  well  know. 
I  am  not  a  young  man.  I  loved  my  little 
Dot,  because  I  had  seen  her  grow  up  from 
a  child  in  her  father's  house;  because  I 
knew  how  precious  she  was;  because 
she  had  been  my  life  for  years  and  years. 
There's  many  men  I  can't  compare  with, 
who  never  could  have  loved  my  little 
Dot  like  me,  I  think;  but  I  did  not — • 
I  feel  it  now,  sufi&ciently  consider  her. 

Tac.  To  be  sure  —  giddiness,  friv- 
olity, fickleness,  love  of  admiration  — 
not  considered;  all  left  out  of  sight,  ha! 

John.  You  had  best  not  interrupt 
me  till  you  understand  me;  and  you're 
wide  of  doing  so.  If  yesterday  I'd  have 
struck  down  that  man  with  a  blow 
who  dared  to  breathe  a  word  against 
her,  to-day  I'd  set  my  foot  upon  his 
face  if  he  was  my  brother. 

Tac.  I  did  not  mean  anything,  John 
Perrybingle,  go  on. 

John.  Did  I  consider  that  I  took 
her,  at  her  age  and  with  her  beauty, 
from  her  young  companions  and  the 
many  scenes  of  which  she  was  the  orna- 
ment; in  which  she  was  the  brightest 
little  star  that  ever  shone;  to  shut  her 
up  from  day  to  day  in  my  dull  house, 
and  keep  my  tedious  company?  Did  I 
consider  how  little  suited  I  was  to  her 
sprightly  humor,  and  how  wearisome  a 
plodding  man  like  me  must  be  to  one  of 


264  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

her  quick  spirit?  Did  I  consider  th;it 
it  was  no  merit  in  me,  or  claim  in  me,  that 
I  loved  her  when  everybody  must  who 
knew  her!  Never!  I  took  advantage  of 
her  hopeful  nature  and  her  cheerful 
disposition,  and  I  married  her.  I  wish 
I  never  had  —  for  her  sake,  not  for  mine. 

Tac.     For  your  own  as  well,  John. 

John.  I  say  no.  Heaven  bless  her 
for  the  constancy  with  which  she  has 
tried  to  keep  the  knowledge  of  this  from 
me.  Poor  girl!  that  I  could  ever  hope 
she  would  be  fond  of  me  —  that  I  could 
ever  believe  she  had  tried  to  keep  the 
knowledge  of  this  from  me.  Poor  girl! 
that  I  could  ever  hope  she  would  be  fond 
of  me  —  that  I  could  ever  believe  she 
was. 

Tac.  She  made  a  show  of  it  —  she 
made  such  a  show  of  it,  that,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  it  was  the  origin  of  my  mis- 
giving. Look  at  May  Fielding,  she  never 
pretends  to  be  so  fond  of  me. 

John.  I  only  now  begin  to  know  how 
hard  she  has  tried  to  be  my  dutiful  and 
zealous  wife.  That  will  be  some  comfort 
to  me  when  I  am  here  alone. 

Tac.  Here  alone?  Oh!  then  you  do 
mean  to  take  some  notice  of  this? 

John.  I  mean  to  do  her  the  greatest 
kindness,  and  make  her  the  best  repara- 
tion in  my  power. 

Tac.  Make  her  reparation?  There 
must  be  something  wrong  here.  You 
didn't  mean  that  of  course. 

John  {seizing  him  by  the  collar) .  Listen 
to  me,  and  take  care  you  hear  me  right. 
Listen  to  me  —  do  I  speak  plainly? 

Tac.     Very  plainly,  indeed. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  265 

John.     As  if  I  meant  it? 

Tac.    Very  much  as  if  you  meant  it. 

John.  I  sat  upon  that  hearth  last 
night  —  all  night  —  on  the  spot  where 
she  has  often  sat  beside  me  with  her  sweet 
face  looking  into  mine.  I  called  up  her 
whole  life  —  its  every  passage  —  in  re- 
view before  me;  and,  upon  my  soul  she  is 
innocent,  if  there  is  one  to  judge  the 
innocent  and  the  guilty. 

Tac.  Very  likely,  John  Perrybingle, 
very  likely. 

John.     Passion  and  distrust  have  left       Contrast   between  John's   inter- 
me;  nothing  but  my  grief  remains.     In  ^lf^i7 ^,1%^  T^^elon.^ 

an  unhappy  moment,  some  old  lover, 
forsaken,  perhaps  for  me,  against  her 
will,  returned.  In  an  unhappy  moment, 
wanting  time  to  think  of  what  she  did,  she 
made  herself  a  party  to  his  treachery  by 
concealing  it.  Last  night  she  saw  him 
in  the  interview  we  witnessed;  it  was 
wrong;  but  otherwise  than  this  she  is 
innocent,  if  there  is  truth  on  earth. 

Tac.     If  that  is  your  opinion? 

John.  So  let  her  go.  Go,  with  my 
blessing  for  the  many  happy  hours  she 
has  given  me,  and  my  forgiveness  for 
any  pang  she  has  caused  me.  She'll 
never  hate  me.  She'll  learn  to  like  me 
better  when  I  am  not  a  drag  upon  her. 

(dot  appears  at  the  back,  pale  and  anxious, 
D.  R.  C.) 

This  is  the  day  on  which  I  took  her, 
with  so  little  thought  for  her  enjoyment, 
from  her  home.  To-day  she  shall  return 
to  it,  and  I  will  trouble  her  no  more. 
Her  father  and  mother  will  be  here  to- 
day —  we   had   made   a   little  plan    for 


266  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

keeping  it  together  —  and  they  shall 
take  her  home.  I  can  trust  her  there, 
or  anywhere.  She  leaves  me  without 
blame  —  and  she  will  live  so,  I  am  sure. 
If  I  should  die  —  I  may,  perhaps,  while 
she  is  still  young  —  I  have  lost  some 
courage,  in  a  few  hours  —  she'll  find  that 
I  remembered  her,  and  loved  her  to  the 
last!  This  is  the  end  of  what  you  showed 
me.     Now  it's  over. 

{Both  rising.) 

Dot  {coming  foncard).  Oh!  no,  John, 
not  over  —  do  not  say  it's  over  yet; 
I  have  heard  your  noble  words  —  I  could 
not  steal  away,  pretending  to  be  ignorant 
of  what  has  affected  me  with  such  deep 
gratitude.  Do  not  say  it's  over,  till  the 
clock  has  struck  again. 

John.  No  hand  can  make  the  clock 
which  will  strike  again  for  me  the  hours 
that  are  gone.  But  let  it  be  so,  if  you 
will,  my  dear.  It  will  strike  soon.  It's 
of  little  matter  what  we  say.  I'd  try 
to  please  you  in  a  harder  case  than  that. 

Tac.  Well,  I  must  be  off;  for,  when  the 
clock  strikes  again,  it'll  be  necessary  for 
me  to  be  on  my  way  to  church.  Good 
morning,  John  Perrybingle,  I'm  sorry 
to  be  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  your 
company  —  sorry  for  the  loss  and  the 
occasion  of  it,  too. 

John.     I  have  spoken  plainly? 

Tac.     Oh!  quite. 

John.  And  you'll  remember  what  I've 
said? 

Tac.  Why,  if  you  compel  me  to  make 
the  observation,  I'm  not  likely  to  forget 
it. 

John.     I'll  see  you  into  your  chaise  — 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  267 


I  shall  not  come  back  here    until  the 
clock   strikes. 

(tackleton  makes  a  rude  obeisance  to 
DOT.  As  he  is  going  out  with  john, 
TILLY  enters  with  the  baby,  john 
pauses  —  kisses  it  —  and  rushes 
out.     DOT  bursts  into  tears.) 

Til.  (howling).  Ow!  if  you  please, 
don't  —  it's  enough  to  dead  and  bury 
the  baby  —  so  it  is,  if  you  please. 

Dot.  Will  you  bring  him  sometimes 
to  see  his  father,  Tilly,  when  I  can't 
live  here,  and  have  gone  to  my  old  home? 

Til.  Ow — w!  if  you  please,  don't! 
oh!  where  has  everybody  gone  and  been 
and  done  with  everybody,  making  every- 
body else  so  wretched  — ow  —  w  —  w ! 
{As  she  is  going  off  she  meets  caleb  and 
BERTHA  entering.) 

Cal.  Heyday?  What's  the  matter 
here? 

Ber.     What!  Mary  not  at  the  wedding! 

Cal.  {aside  to  dot).  I  told  her  you 
would  not  be  there,  mum.  I  heard  as 
much  last  night  —  but,  bless  you,  I  don't 
care  for  what  they  say  —  /  don't  believe 
'em.  There  ain't  much  of  me,  but  that 
little  should  be  torn  to  pieces  sooner 
than  I'd  trust  a  word  against  you. 

{Takes  her  hand.) 

Dot.     You  are  very  kind,  Caleb,  very. 

Ber.  Mary,  where  is  your  hand?  .\h, 
here  it  is!  here  it  is!  {Kisses  it.)  I 
heard  them  speaking  softly  among  them- 
selves, last  night,  of  some  blame  against 
you.     They  were  wrong. 

Cal.    They  were  wrong. 

Ber.     I  know  it  —  I  told  them  so  — I 


268  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

scorned  to  hear  a  word.  There  is 
nothing  half  so  real,  or  so  true  about  me, 
as  she  is  —  my  sister! 

Cal.  Bertha,  my  dear,  I  have  some- 
thing on  my  mind  I  want  to  tell  you, 
while  we  three  are  alone;  hear  me  kindly. 
I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you,  my 
darling. 

Ber.    A  confession,  father? 

Cal.  I  have  wandered  from  the  truth, 
and  lost  myself,  intending  to  be  kind  to 
you.  My  dear,  blind  daughter,  hear  me, 
and  forgive  me. 

Ber.  Forgive  you,  father  —  so  good, 
so  kind! 

Cal.  Your  road  in  life  was  rough,  my 
poor  one,  and  I  meant  to  smooth  it  for 
you.  I  have  altered  objects,  changed  the 
characters  of  people,  invented  many 
things  that  never  have  been,  to  make  you 
happier  —  Heaven  forgive  me  —  and  sur- 
rounded you  with  fancies. 

Ber.  But  living  people  are  not  fancies, 
father,  you  can't  change  them. 

Cal.  I  have  done  so.  Bertha.  There 
is  one  person  that  you  know,  my  dove! 

Ber.  Oh!  father,  why  do  you  say  I 
know!  What,  and  whom  do  /  know  —  I, 
who  have  no  leader  —  I,  so  miserably 
blind! 

Cal.  The  marriage  that  takes  place 
to-day,  !May's  marriage,  is  with  a  sordid, 
stern,  grinding  man;  a  hard  master  to 
you  and  me,  my  dear,  for  many  years; 
ugly  in  his  looks,  and  in  his  nature;  cold 
and  callous  always  —  unlike  what  I  have 
painted  him  to  you,  in  everything,  my 
child,  in  everything. 

Ber.    Oh!  why  did  you  ever  fill  my 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 


269 


heart  so  full,  and  then  come  in,  hke 
death,  and  tear  away  the  objects  of  my 
love?  Oh!  Heaven,  how  blind  I  am, 
how  helpless,  and  alone !  Mary  tell  me 
what  my  home  is  —  what  it  truly  is. 

Dot.  It  is  a  poor  place,  Bertha,  very 
poor  and  bare,  indeed  the  house  will 
scarcely  keep  out  wind  and  rain  another 
winter.  It  is  as  roughly  shielded  from 
the  weather,  Bertha,  as  your  poor  father 
in  his  sackcloth  coat. 

Ber.  {leading  dot  aside).  And  the 
presents,  Mary,  that  came  at  my  wish; 
who  sent  them,  did  you? 

Dot.    No! 

Ber.  {shaking  her  head,  presses  her  hands 
to  her  eyes) .  Dear  Mary,  a  moment  more, 
look  across  the  room  where  my  father 
is,  and  tell  me  what  you  see. 

Dot.  I  see  an  old  man  worn  with  care 
and  work;  but  striving  hard,  in  many 
ways,  for  one  great  sacred  object;  and 
I  honor  his  gray  head,  and  bless  it. 

Ber.  {leaves  dot,  goes  toward  c.\leb, 
and  falls  at  his  knees).  I  feel  as  if  my 
sight  was  restored.  There  is  not  a 
gallant  figure  on  the  earth  that  I  would 
cherish  so  devotedly  as  this  —  the  grayer 
and  more  worn,  the  dearer  —  father. 

Cal.     My  Bertha! 

Ber.  And,  in  my  blindness,  I  believed 
him  to  be  so  different! 

Cal.  The  fresh,  smart  father  in  the 
blue  coat.  Bertha  —  he's  gone. 

Ber.  Nothing  is  gone,  dearest  father. 
No;  everything  is  here  in  you  —  father 

—  Mary 

Cal.    Yes,  my  dear;  here  she  is. 

Ber.    There    is    no    change    in    her. 


Knowledge  of  the  truth  makes 
Bertha's  love  for  Caleb  all 
the  stronger. 


270  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

You  never  told  mc  anything  of  her 
that  was  not  true? 

Cat.  I  should  have  done  it,  my  dear, 
I  fear,  if  I  could  have  made  her  better 
than  she  was.  But  I  must  have  changed 
her  for  the  worse,  if  I  had  changed  her 
at  all  —  nothing  could  improve  her, 
Bertha. 

Dot.  More  changes  than  you  may 
think  for  may  happen,  though.  You 
mustn't  let  them  startle  you  too  much, 
if  they  do.  Bertha!  hark!  are  those 
wheels  upon  the  road? 

Ber.  {listens).    Yes,  coming  very  fast. 

Dot  {flurried) .  I  - —  I  —  I  know  you 
have  a  quick  ear;  though,  as  I  said,  just 
now  —  {listens) — there  are  great  changes 
in  the  world  —  great  changes;  and  we 
can't  do  better,  we  can't  do  better,  I  say, 
than  to  prepare  ourselves  to  be  surprised 
at  hardly  anything.  They  are  wheels, 
indeed  —  coming  nearer  —  nearer! — very 
close  —  and  now  you  hear  them  stopping 
at  the  garden  gate  —  and  now  you  hear 
a  step,  outside  the  door  —  and  now  —  ah ! 
he  is  here ! 

{Music.  She  utters  a  cry  of  delight.  The 
STRANGER,  now  o  youug  man, 
comes  in,  throwing  his  hat  upon 
the  ground,  dot  puts  both  her 
hands  before  Caleb's  eyes.) 

Dot.     It's  over? 

Edw.    Yes. 

Dot.    Happily  over? 

Edw.    Yes. 

Dot.  Do  you  recollect  the  voice,  dear 
Caleb?  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of 
it  before? 


B^'5LiK2SIi33 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  273 

Cal.  If  my  boy  in  Ihe  golden  South 
Americas  was  alive 

Dot.      He   is   alive!      {Takes   her   hands        Revelation  of  the  Stranger's  iden- 
away    from     Caleb's     eyes.)     Look     at  t'ty- 

him!  and  see  where  he  stands  before 
you  —  healthy  and  strong !  —  your  own 
dear  son  —  your  own  dear,  living,  loving 
brother.  Bertha.  {They  embrace.) 

JOHN  enters,  and  starts  back. 

John.  Why  —  how's  this?  What  does 
this  mean? 

Cal.  It  means,  John,  that  my  own  boy 
is  come  back  from  the  golden  South 
Americas  —  him  that  you  fitted  out  and 
sent  away,  yourself  —  him  that  you  were 
always  such  a  friend  to. 

John  {advances  to  shake  hands  and  then 
recoils).     Edward!  was  it  you? 

Dot.  Now  tell  him  all,  Edward,  tell 
him  all,  and  don't  spare  me,  for  nothing 
shall  make  me  spare  myself  in  his  eyes 
ever  again. 

Edw.     I  was  the  man. 

John.  And  could  you  steal  disguised 
into  the  house  of  your  old  friend?  There 
was  a  frank  boy  once  —  how  many  years 
is  it,  Caleb,  since  we  heard  he  was  dead, 
and  had  it  proved,  as  we  thought?  — 
who  never  would  have  done  that. 

Ed-w.  There  was  a  generous  friend  of 
mine  once  —  more  a  father  to  me  than  a 
friend  —  who  never  would  have  judged 
me  or  any  other  man,  unheard.  You  were 
he  —  so  I  am  certain  you  will  hear  me 
now. 

John.     Well,  that's  but  fair.     I  will. 

Edw.  You  must  know  that  when  I 
left  here  a  boy,  I  was  in  love;  and  my  love 


374 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 


was  returned.  She  was  a  very  young  girl, 
who,  perhaps  (you  may  tell  me),  didn't 
know  her  own  mind.  But  I  knew  mine, 
and  I  had  a  passion  for  her. 

John.    You  had  —  yon! 

Edw.  Indeed  I  had,  and  she  returned 
it;  I  have  ever  since  believed  she  did, 
and  now  I  am  sure  she  did. 

John.  Heaven  help  me !  this  is  worse 
than  all. 

Edw.  Constant  to  her,  and  returning 
full  of  hope  after  many  hardships  and 
perils,  to  redeem  my  part  of  our  old 
contract,  I  heard,  twenty  miles  away, 
that  she  was  false  to  me,  that  she  had 
forgotten  me,  and  had  bestowed  herself 
upon  another  and  a  richer  man.  I  had 
no  mind  to  reproach  her,  but  I  wished 
to  see  her,  and  to  prove  beyond  dispute 
that  this  was  true.  That  I  might  have 
the  truth  —  the  real  truth  —  observing 
freely  for  myself,  and  judging  for  myself, 
without  obstruction  on  the  one  hand,  or 
presenting  my  own  influence,  if  I  had 
any,  before  her,  on  the  other,  I  dressed 
myself  unlike  myself  —  you  know  how  — 
and  waited  on  the  road,  you  know  where. 
You  had  no  suspicion  of  me,  neither  had 
—  had  she  {points  to  dot)  until  I  whis- 
pered into  her  ear  at  the  fireside,  and 
she  so  nearly  betrayed  me. 

Dot  {eagerly).  But  when  she  knew 
that  Edward  was  alive  and  had  come 
back,  and  when  she  knew  his  purpose  — 
she  advised  him  by  all  means  to  keep 
his  secret  close,  for  his  old  friend,  John 
Perrybingle,  was  much  too  open  in  his 
nature,  and  too  clumsy  in  all  artifice, 
being  a  clumsy  man  in  general,  to  keep  it 


Complete  revelation  of  the  secret, 
which  serves  an  economic  pur- 
pose by  (i)  lightening  the  bur- 
den of  Caleb  and  Hertha,  (2) 
rescuing  May  from  an  un- 
happy marriage,  and  (3)  re- 
storing John  and  Dot  to  their 
former   happy    relations. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  275 


from  him.  And  when  she  —  that's  me, 
John  —  told  him  all,  and  how  his  old 
sweetheart  had  believed  him  to  be  dead, 
and  how  she  had,  at  last,  been  over- 
persuaded  by  her  mother  into  a  marriage 
which  the  silly,  dear  old  thing  called 
advantageous;  and  when  she — that's 
me  again,  John  —  told  him  they  were  not 
yet  married,  though  close  upon  it,  and 
that  it  would  be  nothing  but  a  sacri- 
fice if  it  went  on,  for  that  there  was  no 
iove  on  her  side,  and  when  he  went  nearly 
mad  with  joy  to  hear  it,  then  she  — 
that's  me  again  —  said  she  would  go  be- 
tween them,  as  she  had  often  done  before 
in  old  times,  John,  and  would  sound  his 
sweetheart,  and  be  sure  that  what  she 
—  me  again,  John  —  said  and  thought 
was  right,  and  it  was  right,  John!  and 
they  were  brought  together,  John!  and 
they  were  married,  John,  an  hour  ago! 
and  here,  here!  {Runs  to  door  and  brings 
in  may)  and  here's  the  bride,  and  Gruff 
&  Tackleton  may  die  a  bachelor,  and  I 
am  a  happy  little  woman!  May  God 
bless  you ! 

John  {advancing).  My  own  darling 
Dot! 

Dot  {retreats).  No,  John,  no!  hear  all — 
don't  love  me  any  more,  John,  till  you 
have  heard  every  word  I  have  to  say. 
It  was  wrong  to  have  a  secret  from  you, 
John.  I'm  very  sorry,  I  didn't  think  it 
any  harm,  till  I  came  and  sat  down  by 
you  on  the  little  stool  last  night,  but 
when  I  knew  by  what  was  written  in 
your  face  that  you  had  seen  me  walking 
in  the  gallery  with  Edward,  and  knew 
what  you  thought,  I  felt  how  giddy  and 


276  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

how  wrong  it  was.     But,  oh!  dear  John, 
how  could  you,  could  you  think  so? 

John.  Little  woman!  Dot!  How 
could  I,  indeed? 

Dot.  Don't  love  me  yet,  please,  John, 
not  for  a  long  time  yet.  When  I  was  sad 
about  this  intended  marriage,  dear,  it 
was  because  I  remembered  May  and 
Edward  such  young  lovers,  and  knew 
that  her  heart  was  far  away  from  Gruff 
&  Tackleton.  You  believe  that  now, 
don't  you,  John? 

John.     I  do,  I  do.  {Advances.) 

Dot.  No,  keep  your  place,  John.  When 
I  laugh  at  you,  as  I  sometimes  do,  John, 
and  call  you  clumsy,  and  a  dear  old 
goose,  and  names  of  that  sort,  it's  be- 
cause I  love  you,  John,  so  well,  and 
take  such  pleasure  in  your  ways,  and 
wouldn't  see  you  altered  in  the  least 
respect  to  have  you  made  a  king  to-mor- 
row. 

Col.     Hooraw!   hooraw!   my   opinion! 

Dot.  When  I  first  came  home  here  I 
was  half  afraid  I  mightn't  learn  to  love 
you  every  bit  as  well  as  I  hoped,  and 
prayed  I  might;  but,  dear  John,  every 
day,  and  every  hour,  I  loved  you  more 
and  more;  and  if  I  could  have  loved  you 
better  than  I  do,  the  noble  words  I  heard 
you  say  this  morning  would  have  made 
me,  but  I  can't;  all  the  affection  I  had 
—  it  was  a  great  deal,  John  —  I  gave 
you,  as  you  well  deserved,  long,  long 
ago,  and  I  have  no  more  left  to  give. 
Now,  my  dear  husband,  take  me  to  your 
heart  again.  That's  my  home,  John;  and 
never,  never  think  of  sending  me  to  any 
other. 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  277 


{She  rushes  into  his  arms;  at  this  moment 
TACKLETON  enters.) 

Tac.  Why,  what  the  devil's  this,  John 
Perrybingle?  There's  some  mistake!  I 
beg  your  pardon,  sir  {to  edward).  I 
haven't  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you; 
but  if  you  can  do  me  the  favor  to  spare 
me  that  young  lady;  she  has  rather  a 
particular  engagement  with  me  this  morn- 
ing. 

Edw.  But  I  can't  spare  her  —  I 
couldn't  think  of  it. 

Tac.  What  do  you  mean,  you  vaga- 
bond! 

Edw.  I  mean  that  as  I  can  make  al- 
lowance for  your  being  vexed,  I  am  as 
deaf  to  harsh  discourse  this  morning  as 
I  was  to  all  discourse  last  night. 

Tac.     I  don't  understand  you. 

Edw.  I  am  sorry,  sir  {holding  out 
may's  ring  finger),  that  the  young  lady 
can't  accompany  you  to  church;  but 
as  she  has  been  there  once  this  morning, 
perhaps  you  will  excuse  her. 

(TACKLETON  looks  at  ring,  scratches  his 
ear,  aitd  takes  a  little  parcel  con- 
taining a  ring  from  his  pocket.) 

Tac.  Miss  Slowboy,  will  you  ha\-e 
the  kindness  to  throw  that  in  the  fire? 
{She  does  so.)     Thank'ee! 

Edw.  It  was  a  previous  engagement, 
quite  an  old  engagement,  that  prevented 
my  wife  from  keeping  her  appointment 
with  you,  I  assure  you. 

May.  Mr.  Tackleton  will  do  me  jus- 
tice to  acknowledge  that  I  revealed  it  to 
him  faithfully;  and  that  I  told  him 
many  times  I  never  could  forget  it. 


278  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

Tac.  Oh!  certainl}',  oh!  to  be  sure! 
oh!  it's  all  right,  it's  quite  correct! 
Mrs.  Edward  Plummer,  I  infer 

Edw.     That's  the  name. 

Tac.  Ah!  I  shouldn't  have  known 
you,  sir  !  I  give  you  joy,  sir! 

Edw.     Thank'ee. 

Tac.  Mrs.  Perrybingle,  I'm  sorry  you 
haven't  done  me  a  very  great  kindness, 
—  but,  upon  my  life,  I'm  sjrry  — I'm 
sorry  —  you  are  better  than  I  thought 
you!  John  Perrybingle,  I'm  sorry  — 
you  understand  me,  that's  enough.  It's 
quite  correct,  ladies  and  gentlemen  all, 
and  perfectly  satisfactory.  Good  morn- 
ing! 

{Exit,  C.) 

John.  Now  we'll  make  a  day  of  it, 
if  ever  there  was  one! 

Dot.  And  we'll  have  such  a  feast, 
and  such  a  merrymaking!  Dear  John, 
I  hardly  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 
My  goodness,  John,  there's  old  Mrs. 
Fielding  at  the  door  all  this  time,  and 
nobody  has  asked  her  out  of  the  chaise. 
Go  and  fetch  her  in.  {Exit  john,  C.) 
And  Caleb,  run  to  father's  and  bring  him 
in,  and  mother,  too,  and  anything  they 
have  got  to  eat  and  drink  that's  ready. 
{Exit  CALEB.)  And  May,  spare  her  for 
a  few  minutes,  Edward,  there's  the  tub 
of  ale  in  the  cellar,  and  there's  the  key; 
and  Bertha  shall  look  after  these  vege- 
tables; and  we've  a  nice  ham!  What 
a  happy,  happy,  little  woman  I  mean  to 
be!  {Bustles  about  ii'illi  tlir  others, 
moving  tables,  plates,  etc.) 

{Enter  john  and  mrs.  fielding.) 


THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH  279 


John.  There,  mum,  there's  your  son- 
in-law,  and  a  fine  feller  he  is ! 

Mrs.  F.  That  ever  I  should  have  lived 
to  see  this  day!     Carry  me  to  my  grave! 

John.  Not  at  all,  mum;  you're  not 
dead,  nor  anything  like  it,  nor  won't  be, 
we  hope,  for  many  a  year  to  come.  There 
let  them  tell  their  own  story,  and  get 
out  of  their  scrape  as  they  can,  and  as  I 
am  sure  they  will. 

{He  brings  edward,  may,  and  mrs. 
FIELDING  together,  and  pushes  thet7i 
toward  the  fireplace.  Enter  caleb, 
with  dot's  father  and  mother  and 
one  or  two  neighbors.  They  etn- 
brace  dot.) 

Cal.  How  d'ye  do,  everybody?  Here 
they  are,  and  here  are  we  —  and  won't 
we  be  jolly?     Halloo !  who  are  you? 

(Enter  a  man,  with  two  parcels.) 

Man.  Mr.  Tackleton's  compliments, 
and  as  he  hasn't  got  no  use  for  the  cake 
himself,  perhaps  you'll  eat  it.  There 
it  is. 

Cal.     Law ! 

Man.  And  Mr.  Tackleton's  compli- 
ments, and  he's  sent  a  few  toys  for  the 
baby  —  they  ain't  ugly. 

Dot.     Why,  what  can  this  mean! 

(Enter   tackleton.) 

Tac.  Mrs.  Perrj-bingle,  it  means  this 
—  I'm  sorry,  more  sorrj'  than  I  was  this 
morning.  John  Perrj'bingle,  I'm  sour  by 
disposition,  but  I  can't  help  being  sweet- 
ened, more  or  less,  by  coming  face  to 
face  with    such  a  man  as   you,  Caleb. 


2So  THE  CRICKET  ON  THE  II EA  RTH 

Thai  unconscious  little  nurse  gave  me 
a  broken  iu'nt  last  night,  of  which  I  have 
found  the  tiiread.  1  blush  to  think  how 
easily  I  might  have  bound  you  and  your 
daughter  to  me,  and  what  a  miserable 
idiot  I  was  when  I  took  her  for  one. 
Friends,  one  and  all,  my  house  is  very 
lonely  to-day;  I  have  not  so  much  as  a 
cricket  on  my  hearth;  I  have  scared 
them  all  away;  be  gracious  to  me  —  let 
me  join  this  happy  party.     Do ! 

John.  Of  course,  and  heartily  glad  we 
are  to  see  you!  we'll  make  you  so  jolly 
that  you  sha'n't  believe  you're  yourself! 

Dot.  John,  you  won't  send  me  home 
this  evening,  will  you! 

(JOHN  embraces  her.) 

Edtv.  A  dance!  a  dance!  Bertha,  here's 
your  harp,  now  play  us  your  liveliest  tune. 
Won't  you  dance,  Mary?  (dot  shakes 
her  head.)  Nor  you,  John?  No.  Then 
here  goes! 

(bertha  plays  the  harp.    Music,    may      rp„,  ■     ~     ,-       r.^    ^ 

■^      '  •'^  lotal  relaxation  of  the  dramatic 

and  EDWARD  get  up  and  dance  for  a  strain. 

little  time  alone.  Then  jon.<i  throws 
his  pipe  away,  takes  dot  around 
the  waist,  and  joins  them.  Pres- 
ently    TACKLETON      gOCS      ojf    icith 

MRS.  fielding;  then  dot's  father 
and  another  join  in  —  lastly  caleb 
and  MISS  slowboy,  and  Neighbors. 
General  Dance. 

THE  end. 


■^V-AI-TIKI!!      lI?!RT!>^Vr«.'K 


APPENDIX  IV 


Plays 
Recommended  for  Study 


APPENDIX  IV 

PLAYS  RECOMMENDED  FOR  STUDY 

1.  AS   A  MAN  THINKS,   by  Augustus  Thomas; 
Duffield  &  Company,  New  York. 

2.  CANDIDA,    by    George   Bernard    Shaw;   Bren- 
tano's.  New  York. 

3.  THE  CLIMBERS,  by  Clyde  Fitch;  Macmillan 
Company,  New  York. 

4.  THE    GREAT   DIVIDE,   by   WilHam   Vaughn 
Moody;  Macmillan  Company,  New  York, 

5.  THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  BEING  EARNEST, 
by  Oscar  Wilde;  Walter  H.  Baker  &  Co.,  Boston. 

6.  THE  MAN  FROM  HOME,  by  Tarkington  and 
Wilson;  Harper  &  Brothers,  New  York. 

7.  THE  MELTING-POT,  by  Israel  Zangwill;  Mac- 
millan Company,  New  York. 

8.  THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE,  by  Charles 
Rann  Kennedy;  Harper  &  Brothers,  New  York. 

9.  SWEET    LAVENDER,   by  Arthur  W.  Pinero; 
Walter  H.  Baker  &  Co.,  Boston. 

10.  YOUNG  MRS.  WINTHROP,  by  Bronson  How- 
ard;  Samuel  French,  New  York 
28s 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Action,  importance  of,  76;   unity  of,  37,  40,  41,  89,  99,  109,  115,  125. 

Actors,  licensed  to  perform,  32. 

i-Eschylus,  28. 

Allegory,  as  the  distinguishing  feature  of  the  Morality  Play,  29. 

Analyses:  .4^  You  Like  It,  89;  A  Doll's  House,  109;  Mary  Magdalene, 

115;  Othello,  99. 
Analysis  of  the  drama  compared  to  the  study  of  Botany,  21. 
Anticipation,  as  a  dramatic  principle,  58;  instances  of,  93,  loi,  no, 

116,  126,  131,  134,  136,  137,  156,  228,  234. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  45. 

Arch-Hke  method  of  plot  development,  42,  90,  99,  115,  135. 
Aristotle,  theory  of  the  unities  attributed  to,  37. 
As  a  Man  Thinks,  285. 

Asides,  abandonment  of,  52;  instances  of,  90,  100,  109,  129. 
As  Von  Like  It,  analysis  of,  89. 

Bahr,  Herman,  The  Concert,  55. 
Bale,  John,  King  John,  30. 

Belasco,  David,  52;   The  Girl  of  the  Golden  West,  56;    The  Heart  of  Mary- 
land, 42. 
Botanist,  the,  analyst  of  the  drama  compared  to,  21. 
Bret  Harte,  71. 
Browne,  Walter,  Everyn'oman,  29. 

Candida,  285. 

Castle  of  Pcrscvcrencc,  The,  29. 

Catastrophic  method  of  plot  development,  45,  109. 

Chaucer,  89. 

Chronicle  Play,  the,  30. 

Cinthio,  Giraldi,  99. 

Climax,  The,  55. 

Climbers,  The,  285. 

Comedy,  transition  from  liturgical  plays  to,  30. 

Comedy  of  Errors,  The,  38. 

Concert,  The,  55. 

Conflict,  as  a  dramatic  principle,  71;   instances  of,  94,  95,  103,  in, 

119,  134,  136,  138,  141,  178,  179,  1S7,  190,  194,  208. 
Contrast,  as  a  dramatic  principle,  70;   instances  of,  94,  103,  in,  119, 

125,  13s,  174,  194,  230,  239,  265. 

289 


290  INDEX 

Cook's  Talc  of  Gamelyn,  The,  89. 

Coriolanus,  45. 

Courtyard,  the,  as  the  model  for  the  playhouse,  40. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  The,  annotated,  217. 

Curfew  Must  Not  Ring  To-night,  theme  of  in  The  Heart  of  Maryland,  42. 

Davis,  Richard  Harding,  The  Dictator,  70. 

Development  of  dramatic  forms,  27. 

Diagram,  analytical,  83. 

Dickens,  Charles,  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  215,  217. 

Dictator,  The,  70. 

Dionysus,  27. 

Diplomacy  (French  title,  Dora),  59. 

Dithyramb,  the,  27. 

Ditrichstein,  Leo,  The  Concert,  55. 

Doll's  House,  A,  analysis  of,  109. 

Dramatic  presentation,  early  methods  of,  30,  31. 

Drury  Lane  Theatre,  153. 

Economy,  as  a  dramatic  principle,  65;  instances  of,  93,  94,  102,  no, 

III,  116,  119,  132,  136,  197,  274. 
Elizabethan  theatre,  the,  influence  of,  40. 
English  drama,  source  of,  28. 

Esenwein,  J.  Berg,  Studying  the  Short-Story,  75,  123. 
Everyman,  29. 
Everyu'oman,  29. 

Fitch,  Clyde,  72;    The  Climbers,  285;  Girls,  75;   Her  Oioi  Way,  52,  75; 

Nathan  Hale,  75. 
Four  P's,  The,  30. 

Gamblers,  The,  72. 

Ghosts,  46,  55. 

Gilbert,  W.  S.,  Gilbert  and  Sullivan,  Pinafore,  69. 

Girl  of  the  Golden  West,  The,  56. 

Girls,  75-    .   . 

Golden,  William  Echard,  quoted,  31. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  58. 

Gorbuduc,  30. 

Gosse,  Edmund,  45. 

Great  Divide,  The,  285. 

Greek  drama,  origin  of,  27. 


Hamlet,  30. 

Harvest  Moon,  The,  52. 
Heart  of  Maryland,  The,  42. 
Hedda  Gabler,  60. 
Henry  IV,  45. 


INDEX  291 

Henry  V,  45. 

Henry  VI,  45. 

Henry  VIII,  45. 

Henry,  O.,  The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief,  75. 

Her  Oicn  Way,  52,  75. 

Heyse,  Paul,  Maria  von  Magdala,  115. 

Heywood,  John,  The  Four  P's,  30. 

Howard,  Bronson,  Young  Mrs.  Winthrop,  285. 

Humanizing  process,  57,  90,  100,  no,  116,  129,  132,  143. 

Ibsen,  Henrik,  37,  45,  51,   72;   A   Doll's  House,   109;  Ghosts,  46,  55; 

Hedda  Gabler,  60. 
Importance  of  Being  Earnest,  The,  285. 
Improbable  events,  anticipation  of,  58. 
Interlude,  the,  29. 
Irony,  69,  103,  137,  177,  206,  253. 
Italian  critics  and  the  Unities,  37. 

"Journalistic"  drama,  the,  71,  72. 
Julius  Ccesar,  42,  45,  56,  69,  70. 

Kennedy,  Charles  Rann,  The  Servant  in  the  House,  38,  285. 

King  John,  Bale's,  30. 

King  John,  Shakespeare's,  45. 

King  Lear,  42,  56. 

Klein,  Charles,  The  Gamblers,  72;   The  Lion  and  the  Mouse,  72;   The 

Music  Master,  55. 
Kyd,  Thomas,  Spanish  Tragedy,  30. 

Lady  Frederick,  71. 

Light,  introduction  of,  52,  55,  100,  116,  138. 

Lion  and  the  Mouse,  The,  72. 

Locke,  Edward,  The  Climax,  55. 

Lodge,  Thomas,  Rosalynd:  Euphues'  Golden  Legacy,  89. 

Macbeth,  42,  56. 

]\Iaeterlinck,  Maurice,  Mary  Magdalene,  115. 

Magda,  60. 

Alan  from  Home,  The,  285. 

Maria  von  Magdala,  115. 

Mary  Magdalene,  analysis  of,  115. 

INIatthews,  Brander,  37,  75. 

McUiKgPot,  The,  285. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  The,  42,  57,  59,  66,  70;  Trial  Scene,  annotated,  187. 

jMerington,  IMarguerite,  quoted,  69. 

Mistress  Molly,   123. 

Miracle  Play,  the,   29. 

Modern  theatre,  influence  of,  41. 


292  INDEX 

Mood}-,  \\'illiam  \'aughn,  The  Great  Divide,  285. 

Moses,  Alontrose  J.,  72. 

Morality  Play,  the,  29. 

Moulton,  Richard  G.,  39,  42,  94. 

Mummy  and  the  Humming  Bird,  The,  60. 

!Music,  introduction  of,  52,  55,  90,  100,  no,  116,  126,  218. 

Music  Master,  The,  55. 

M>-stery  Play,  the,  28. 

Nathan  Hale,   75. 

Natural  phenomena,  introduction  of,  56. 
Noise,  introduction  of,  55,  no,  129. 
Norton  and  Sackville,  Gorbuduc,  30. 

Objects,  introduction  of,   60. 
Old  Homestead,  The,  70. 
Opening  scene,  importance  of,  72. 
Othello,  analysis  of,  99. 

Pageant,  the,  origin  of,  31. 

Pinafore,  69. 

Pinero,  A.  W.,  Stcect  Lavender,  285. 

Place,  unity  of,  37,  38,  39,  89,  99,  109,  115,  125. 

Playhouses,  building  of,  31,  32. 

Play  impulse,  origin  of,  27. 

Plot,  41. 

Priests  and  the  sacred  drama,  30,  31. 

Prior  occurrences,  narration  of,  39,  89,  99,  109,  115,  129. 

Priso)icr  of  Zenda,  The,  70. 

Prose,  as  the  vehicle  of  dramatic  expression,  51. 

Ralph  Royster  Doyster,  30. 

Ransom  of  Red  Chief,  The,  75. 

Rejuvenation  of  Auni  Mary,  The,  70. 

Richard  II,  45. 

Richard  III,  45,  57,  58,  66,  69. 

Rip   Van  Winkle,  56,  57. 

"Rise  and  fall"  method   applied  to  groups  of  Shakespearian  plays.  45. 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  52. 

Rosalynd:  Euphues'  Golden  Legacy,  89. 

Sackv.'lle  and  Norton,  Gorbuduc,  30. 

Sacred  drama,  the,  method  of  presentation,  30,  31. 

Sardou,  Victorien,  Diplomacy,  59. 

Schlegel,  quoted,  185. 

School  for  Scandal,  The,  153;   Screen  Scene,  annotated,  155. 

Servant  in  the  House,  The,  38,  285. 


INDEX  293 

Shakespeare,  37,  40,  41,  45,  52,  55;  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  45;  As 
You  Like  It,  89;  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  38;  Coriolanus,  45;  Ham- 
let, 30;  Henry  IV,  45;  Henry  V,  45;  Henry  VI,  45;  Henry  VIII, 
45,  Julius  Ccesar,  42,  45,  56,  69,  70;  A'/z/g  /o//«,  45;  King  Lear, 
42,  56;  Macbeth,  42,  56;  r/(e  Merchant  of  Venice,  42,  57,  59,  66, 
70,  187;  Othello,  99;  Richard  II,  45;  Richard  III,  45,  57,  58,  66, 
69;  Romeo  and  Juliet,  52;  r//e  Tempest,  38,  39;  Timon  of  Athens, 
45 ;   rice/////  iV/g///,   59,  yo. 

Shaw,  George  Bernard,  Candida,  285. 

5/if  Stoops  to  Conquer,  58. 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley,  r/;e  School  for  Scandal,  153,  155. 

Smith,  Albert,  dramatization  of  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  215,  217. 

Soliloquy,  51,  52,  90,  100,  109;    substitution  of  action  for,  52. 

Sophocles,  28,  45. 

Spanish  Tragedy,  30. 

Sudermann,  Hermann,  Magda,  60. 

Suspense,  as  a  dramatic  principle,  76,  165,  169,  1S5,  198,  199,  200,  209. 

Sweet  Lavender,  285. 

Tarkington  and  Wilson,  The  Man  from  Home,  285. 

Tempest,  The,  38,  39. 

Theatre,  Elizabethan,  40;   modern,  41. 

Theatres,  building  of,  31,  32. 

Theme,  choice  of,  72;   treatment  of,  72,  75. 

Thespis,  27. 

Thomas,  Augustus,  52;   As  a  Man  Thinks,  285;    The  Harvest  Moon,  52; 

The  Witching  Hour,  60,  71. 
Time,  unity  of,  37,  38,  39,  89,  99,  109,  115,  125. 
Timon  of  Athens,  45. 
Trades  guilds  and  sacred  drama,  31. 
Tragedy,  transition  from  liturgical  plays  to,  30. 
Tragedy  of  blood,  the,  30. 
Tumult,  introduction  of,  55,  90,  100,  116. 
Twelfth  Night,  59,  70. 

Udall,  Nicholas,  Ralph  Royster  Doyster,  30. 
Unities,  the.  37-41,  89,  99,  109,  115,  125. 
Unity  of  action,  see  Action. 
Unity  of  place,  see  Place. 
Unity  of  time,  see  Time. 

Verse,  decline  of,  51;   as  the  vehicle  of  dramatic  expression,  90,  100. 

Wagner,  Richard,  78. 

Ward,  quoted,  38. 

Wilde,  Oscar,  The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest,  285. 

Witching  Hour,  The,  60,  71. 

Young  Mrs.  Winthrop,  285. 

Zangwill,  Israel,  The  Melting  Pot,  285. 


294  •^'  <^^  OAS  0  F  CO  I.  L  A  TERA  L  IN  T ERE  ST 

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PUBLISHED  B  Y  HINDS,  NOBLE  ^  ELDREDGE    295 

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P  UB  LI  SHED  B  Y  HIA'DS.  NOBLE  ^  ELDREDGE      297 

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Arnold's  Sohrab  and  Rustuvi  Lowell's  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal 


PUBLISHED  B  Y  HINDS,  NOBLE  &>  ELDREDGE      299 

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Its  inspirational  method  and.  logical  order  are  based  upon  the 
best  pedagogical  approach  ;  it  covers  the  entire  ground  of  the 
subject  fully  yet  concisely;  it  is  the  work,  not  of  a  doctrinaire, 
but  of  a  successful  editor  whose  scholarship  previously  com- 
manded attention  in  the  college  class-room  and  whose  profession 
it  has  been  for  years  to  examine,  purchase,  edit.,  anCi.  publish  the 
short-story,  as  well  as  other  literary  forms. 


300  BOOKS  OF  COLLATERAL  INTEREST 

As  a  means  of  showing  the  application  of  the  practical  side  of 

English  not  only  to  college  students  but  even  to  bright  boys  and 

girls  in  high  school,  this  work  of  Dr.  Esenwein's  "^xa.^  proved  to  be 

of  more   moment    than   either  he  or  the  publishers  at  the  first 

imagined. 

PARTIAL    CONTENTS 

History  of  the  Short-Story  Characters  and  Characterization 

What  is  a  Short-Story  ?  The  Title 

Kinds  of  Short-Story  Fact  in  Fiction 

Choosing  a  Theme  Ending  the  Story 

Gathering  Materials  Style 

The  Opening  Preparation  for  Authorship 

The  Plot  Preparing  and  Selling  the 

Setting  Manuscript 

Body  of  the  Story  Full  Lists  of  Stories  and 

Dialogue  Outline  of  Plots 
etc.,    etc. 

Can  YOU  Dissect  a  Short-Story  ? 
Can  YOU  Talk  About  the   Short-Story  ? 
Can  YOU  "Write  a  Short-Story  ? 
Can  YOU  Sell  Your  Short-Stories  ? 

This  book  will  help  you.  Every  teacher,  every  student  of 
English,  every  writer,  every  critic,  every  editor,  every  magazine 
reader,  will  greatly  enjoy  this  book. 

How  to  Attract  and  Hold  an  Audience.  —  By  J.  Berg 
Esenwein  ($1.00  postpaid).  Not  only  the  occasional 
participant  in  debate  or  other  platform  work,  but 
every  clergyman,  every  teacher,  every  man  or  woman 
occupying  an  official  position,  who  is  likely  ever  to 
have  occasion  to  enlist  the  interest,  to  attract  and  hold 
the  attention  of  one  or  more  hearers,  and  convince 
them  — will  find  in  How  to  Attract  and  Hold  an  Audience  a 
clear,  concise,  complete  handbook  which  will  enable  him 
to  succeed. 

Thorough,  concise,  methodical,  replete  with  common  sense, 
complete — these  words  describe  fitly  this  book;  and  in  his  logical 
method,  in  the  crystal-like  lucidity  of  his  style,  in  his  forceful, 
incisive,  penetrating  mastery  of  this  subject,  the  author  has  at 
one  bound  placed  himself  on  a  plane  with  the  very  ablest  teacher- 
authors  of  his  day. 


PUBLISHED  B  Y  HINDS,  NOBLE  6-  ELDREDGE     301 

Commencement  Parts.  —  Compiled  by  Harry  C.  Davis 
($1.50  postpaid).  Contains  models  of  the  salutatory,  the 
valedictory,  orations,  class  poems,  class  songs,  class 
mottoes,  class  will,  ivy  poem  and  song,  Dux's  speech; 
essays  and  addresses  for  flag  day,  the  seasons,  national 
and  other  holidays  ;  after-dinner  speeches  and  re- 
sponses to  toasts.  Also  models  for  occasional  addresses 
— social,  educational,  political,  religious.  Also  models 
for  superintendents^  Sind  principals'  addresses  to  graduating 
class,  debating  team,  educational  conference;  on  dedi- 
cation of  school  building,  public  building,  library;  for 
holidays,  festival  days,  and  scores  of  social  and  other 
occasions.  Also  themes  for  essays,  and  lists  of  subjects 
for  orations,  essays,  toasts. 

Models  for  every  possible  occasion  in  high  school  and  college 
career,  everyone  of  the  "efforts"  being  what  some  fellow  has 
stood  on  /lis  feet  and  actually  delivered  on  a  similar  occasion  — 
not  what  the  compiler  would  say  if  he  should  happen  to  be  called 
on  for  an  ivy  song  or  a  response  to  a  toast,  or  what  not;  but  what 
the  fellow  himself,  when  his  turn  came,  did  say  f  Invaluable, 
indispensable  to  those  preparing  any  kind  of  "effort."     Unique, 


Great  Poems  Interpreted. —  By  Waitman  Barbe  ($1.25 
postpaid).  This  is  a  book  for  all  who  want  to  know, 
or  need  to  know,  the  real  meaning  and  significance  of 
some  of  the  great  English  and  American  poems  —  a 
book  for  use  in  high  schools  and  colleges,  in  teachers' 
reading  circles  and  in  literary  clubs.  It  is  an  explana- 
tory course  in  the  study  oi  great  poetry  from  Herrick  to  Rossetti. 
All  who  are  acquainted  with  the  author's  Famous  Poems 
Explained  will  welcome  this  new  and  more  advanced 
volume.     With  scholarly  instinct  and  training  (includ- 


302  JyQOA'S  OF  COLLATERAL  LXTEKEST 

ing  graduate  work  at  both  Harvard  and  Oxford),  the 
author  has  rendered  his  fellow-students  and  fellow- 
teachers  genuine  service  in  this  work  of  love.  A  brief 
explanatory  essay,  by  way  of  literary  interpretation 
and  historical  setting,  precedes  each  poem.  Also, 
most  of  the  poems  are  outlined  for  the  convenience  of 
teachers  and  students.  Besides,  the  textual  difficulties 
are  explained  in  footnotes.  At  the  end  of  the  book  are 
^^biographical  notes  of  the  authors  represented." 

1000  Mythological  Characters  Briefly  Described  .  $0.75 
1000  Classical  Characters  Briefly  Described    .     .       .75 

The  former  presents  within  the  limits  of  a  handy 
volume  concise  and  accurate  accounts  in  alphabetical 
order  for  ready  reference,  of  all  the  gods,  goddesses  and 
heroes  of  olden  times,  enabling  one  to  tell  instantly 
"who^s  %vho  in  mythology."  It  is  especially  adapted  for 
use  in  private  schools,  academies  and  high  schools, 
and  has  been  widely  adopted  as  a  classbook. 

The  latter  is  designed  to  aid  the  student  of  the 
classics  to  acquire  in  a  simple  and  intelligible  form 
the  most  important  facts  connected  with  classical  history. 

Embarrassing,  isn't  it,  when  we  run  across  the  name  of  some 
god  or  goddess,  in  the  daily  paper,  or  in  a  poem,  7iot  to  knoiu? 
Or  perhaps  one  just  fails  to  ^rv]o-^  perfectly ,  a  beautiful  painting 
or  engraving  or  piece  of  statuary,  because  ignorant  of  the  myth 
implied,  or,  maybe,  one  misses  the  point  of  some  classical  allusion 
in  a  speech,  a  lecture,  a  sermon,  or  at  the  play. 

And  how  one's  memory  is  piqued  when  one  can't  recall  the 
storv,  though  once  familiar!  How  the  matter  "sticks  in  the 
mind,"  pestering  us  until  it  all  comes  back  to  us. 

These  two  books  will  "save  the  situation"  when  it  is 
a  question  of  "who's  who"  in  mythology  or  history. 


PCBLISHED  B  Y  I/IXDS,  NOBLE  e-  ELDREDGE      303 

The  Power  of  Speech.  —  By  Edwin  Gordon  Lawrence 
($1.25  postpaid).  A  book  of  thorough  and  practical 
advice  on  the  speaking  voice;  embracing  deep  breathing, 
articulation,  modulation,  emphasis  and  delivery;  vocal 
coloring,  interpretation  of  the  written  word,  the  con- 
veying of  thought  by  means  of  vocal  expression,  and 
the  principles  of  dramatic  art;  and  adapted  to  the  use  of 
everyone  who  would  employ  the  voice  to  get    ?-esidts. 

If  a  society  man  or  luoman,  a  clea'-,  soft  voice  will  prove  a 
greater  charm  than  grace  of  form  and  beauty  of  feature. 

"Cupid  hath  not,  in  all  his  quiver's  choice, 
An  arrow  for  the  heart  like  a  sweet  voice." 

If  a  business  man,  a  pleasing,  convincing  voice  will  greatly 
enhance  your  influence  and  power. 

If  a  lawyer,  you  must  be  able  to  move  judge  or  jury  by 
properly  and  clearly  presenting  your  argument  by  means  of  a 
well-modulated,  expressive  voice,  as  only  by  inflection,  emphasis 
and  modulation  are  we  able  to  convey  the  meaning  of  the  words. 

If  a  politiciafi,  more  depends  on  your  manner  than  your  matter, 
and  for  this  reason  it  is  absolutely  essential  that  you  should  have 
a  thoroughly  disciplined  voice  that  will  instantly  respond  to  every 
demand  made  upon  it,  enabling  you  to  talk  with  ease  for  hours, 
if  necessary,  to  impress  your  will  upon  the  minds  of  others,  and 
cause  them  to  act  in  accordance  with  your  desires. 

If  an  actor  (or  desirous  of  becoming  one),  you  must  have  such 
control  over  the  mechanism  of  the  voice  as  to  be  able  to  produce 
any  tone  at  will,  and  capable  of  expressing  all  the  difl:erent 
emotions. 

If  a  clergyman,  you  should  have  a  free,  pleasing  and  con- 
vincing voice  in  order  that  you  may  persuade  the  listener  by  its 
tones,  as  well  as  by  the  truth  of  your  message,  and  deliver  your 
sermon  with  ease  to  yourself  and  pleasure  to  your  congregation. 

If  a  teacher,  you,  perhaps  more  than  any  other  worker,  need 
to  know  how  to  use  your  own  voice  effectively. 

The  Poiver  oj  Speech  is  the  work  of  one  who  has  devoted 
a  life-time  to  the  study  of  the  speaking  voice,  and  who 
is  acknowledged  an  authority  in  his  profession. 
In    simple,    forceful    and    expressive    language    the 


304  BOOKS  OF  COLLATERAL  LNTEREST 

subject  of  the  voice,  its  production,  control  and 
preservation,  is  exhaustively  treated  "without  the  use  of 
technical  terms.      Said  Henry  Ward  Beecher: 

"The  cultivated  voice  is  hke  an  orchestra.  It  ranges  high,  in- 
termediate, or  low,  unconsciously  to  him  who  uses  it,  a::d  men 
listen,  unaware  that  they  have  been  bewitched  out  of  their 
weariness  by  the  charms  of  a  voice  not  artificial,  but  made,  by 
assiduous  training,  to  be  second  nature." 


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